


They Make A Desert, and Call It Peace

by AuKestrel



Series: They Make A Desert [1]
Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Elemental Magic, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Underage, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Roman Britain, Selkies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:19:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuKestrel/pseuds/AuKestrel
Summary: This story was inspired by the heartbreak on Esca’s face as he leaves the message with the Seal Boy for the Seal Prince. “You tell him when he wakes that Esca's very sorry but he has to go now. Not until he wakes, yes?”





	1. I was only walking through your neighbourhood

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and Warnings: I cannot stress strongly enough that this contains period-typical attitudes and violence. I tried to include appropriate ratings and tags but I may have missed some or may not be aware of specific triggers. Please be aware that Esca lived as a slave for seven years under Roman occupation, with all that implies, up to and including being used for sex.
> 
> [Story notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936999/chapters/42356957), including my assumptions and reasoning, are available as the last part of the series along with a partial bibliography. 
> 
> I am, as always, grateful to TheAmusedOne for bouncing ideas, listening to rambles, interpreting my half-formulated thoughts, and Katharine Briggs' encyclopedias. I'm also grateful to Sineala for sharing the shooting script of _The Eagle_ with me, which answered some of my questions and, I must confess, reinforced some of my already-formulated biases.
> 
> ***
> 
> **Language Notes**
> 
> Because I am better at it, I have used Irish instead of Scottish Gaelic. The name Muirġa means “sea spear” in Irish. It is pronounced, roughly, as “Mur-hyuh” - the lenited ġ is a gh sound, pronounced much the way a Flemish person pronounces “Brugge” or “Gent.” I do not speak Irish and only dimly comprehend its complex grammatical system, so all mistakes are mine. The language spoken by Esca and the Seal People is an attempt to reflect, however poorly, an orientation to a Gaelic-derived syntax.
> 
> Much of the spelling is either Old Irish or adapted to reflect what I have learned of pre-Roman British alphabets and naming practices, e.g., using two n’s where modern Irish uses one. I apologise for the complexity of the Irish words and terms used here, but part of this was an attempt to think about how the British – whether they were Brigantes or Tæsgali – would think about themselves, and the terms they would use to refer to these concepts instead of (sometimes culturally laden) words like “king” or “tribe” or “village.”
> 
> If the HTML coding is working as planned, some translations will be available if you hover over the appropriate words; ditto for footnotes. There are no actual footnotes at the end since I did not want to tackle all that code, so I took the "a title= " approach.
> 
> ETA: Thanks to robin721 for letting me know that there were issues with the HTML for the translations and footnotes. I'm working on updating them so they'll be more compatible with mobile devices as well as web browsers.
> 
> **Kinship Diagram**
> 
> Click the link for a [kinship diagram](https://flic.kr/p/2e7k9AQ) to help make sense of the Seal People's social and governing structure.  
> 

# They Make a Desert, and Call It Peace

_Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant._ [[1]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note01)  
–Tacitus,  _Agricola_ (c. 98)

* * *

“You were never initiated.”

It’s not a question; but still Esca looks up from his rock, startled, to see Muirġa looking back at him, his expression as inscrutable as it’s ever been. Even the wind on the headland dies down, as if holding its breath for Esca’s response.

Esca is to be initiated into the _feann_ [[2]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note02) at the fires of Lugos, with the other young men; Nechtann had told him so, the elders nodding, and Muirġa behind them, a faint smile playing about his lips. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have refused without exciting suspicion (more suspicion, that is; Nechtann, like his son, doesn’t seem to miss much). But he wasn’t at all inclined to say he wouldn’t. He had given the truth to Nechtann and Muirġa, there around the fire that first night: his heart hunts for freedom, and just now it’s aching in a way it hasn’t for many years. His people have a word for this heartache, this emptiness: _folús_.[[3]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note03) But giving it a name doesn’t stop him from yearning towards Muirġa, towards the sea, away from Rome. Away from Marcus.

The Tæsgali aren’t his _fine_ [[4]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note04), it’s true; but they’re his people, in a way the Romans will never be. They’ll never belong to this land they call Britain, nor will they ever understand it; Esca and his people will always be ‘other’ – and ‘lesser’ – to the Romans. Marcus had made that much clear. Despite his kindness, and the honour his heart carried like a stone, he had never looked outside Rome at the land and the people, far away from Rome, although Rome itself had exiled him. To Marcus, Britain and its inhabitants are dogs. They can be thrown scraps, even trained to do tricks. But their desire for freedom is called rebellion, and where they cannot be tamed, they are put to the sword. Like the rest of the Romans, Marcus seems incapable of imagining that this land has existed before Rome’s advent, just as he seems incapable of imagining its inhabitants have long fought and bled and died for such abstract concepts as honour. The Romans have a two-faced god: Esca has often wondered at their own blindness, because to him that two-faced god of theirs reflects them perfectly, only seeing one direction at a time and no other.

As it was, Nechtann had not asked, only offered – told, if Esca was honest. He had been matter of fact, but those keen eyes were subjecting Esca to the same sort of scrutiny he’s facing now, with Muirġa. But Esca had answered, promptly and sincerely, with his thanks and with the acknowledgment that he was aware an honour being extended to him, and grateful withal, and the skin at the corner of Nechtann’s eyes had relaxed just enough for Esca to see the difference between overt suspicion and withholding judgment.

But there is no suspicion here and now on Muirġa’s face, and hasn’t been, not since he offered Marcus’ throat to Muirġa’s knife. That calm scrutiny, though; Muirġa clearly comes by that naturally, although his gaze lacks the edge, the speculation in Nechtann’s, and some of the others, that had finally driven Esca to seek solace in the bright sunshine and the wind from the sea on the solitude of the headland.

There have been comings and goings over the last few days, muttering and whispering behind hands, particularly among the elders. It is possible the mutterings have to do with his initiation, but that makes little sense. An initiation is the same in any _fine_ , whether he stands as a foster brother to Muirġa, or as a foster son to Nechtann. In his life before Rome he had seen initiations among the Brigantes, and not all had been born Brigantes.

Still, the Seal People have different customs, that much is true; thus there might be some among them who would not take Esca’s inclusion in the _fine_ , let alone his initiation into the _feann_ , as desirable. Had Esca been the sort to worry, this would have worried him. But there is nothing he can do save cleave to his role. Either they believe him or they don’t; either he will be initiated or he will be killed.

“No. I was not initiated,” he says to Muirġa, getting to his feet. “How did you know?”

“You are still alive,” Muirġa says with a quick shrug, and although his expression doesn’t change, Esca sees a flicker of something in Muirġa’s eyes – awareness? acceptance? acknowledgement? – that sends a warm feeling all through him, followed almost immediately by a sick rush of dread.

He swallows hard, the compliment unlooked for and unexpected, hoping Muirġa will put it down to bad memories instead of ominous futures; and he feels tears prickle behind the lids of his eyes.

He had been too young to march north, too young by far; his mother’s brothers, his father’s brothers, and his father had returned, victorious, along with Esca’s oldest brother. Back then, before the slaughter, they still had hope that the occupiers would be driven out, by their savage land and still more savage warriors.

That hope had died in a field more than seven years ago; died for Esca, at least. But not for Nechtann; not for Muirġa. Not for their people, who lived and fought and hunted and loved far from the Romans, far from the wall, far from their roads and their language and their crowds of people, panting and baying for blood, like hounds.

Yes, he would have fought, and did fight, along with his father and brothers and uncles and cousins. Until the last, when his brothers lay, dying or dead, when his mother joined his father in that final ring, when she clung to Esca for a few brief seconds, breathing his name into his ear and telling him to run and flow, like water, to live… and his father pressed his dagger into Esca’s hand.

His father had not told him to turn his face, nor had his mother, nor had the several warriors grouped around them, most of whom were related to Esca by bonds of blood. Nor had his father told him to remember: he hadn’t needed to tell Esca, for he would never forget his mother kneeling, offering her throat to her husband, her hand resting on his for a moment before she closed her eyes. It was to spare his father, Esca knows; his family’s bravery comes from both sides.

“Did they kill them, your family?” Muirġa asks, after a long moment, and his voice is so low and quiet that the tears threaten to spill, now. Telling Marcus of his family had been a brazen attempt to bring Marcus to some kind of awareness, to shake him out of his complacency and privilege, Esca so angry that he was heedless of the danger to himself, the danger that obtained to any slave in an occupied land, the danger that came from sharing too much information, information that could be used in unforeseen ways to torture, to punish, even to tear the heart out of a man and leave him walking dead.

Muirġa is still looking at him, and Esca manages a nod; he is not overcome, now, by the anger he felt that night listening to Marcus’ assumptions, calmly and brazenly paraded. Instead it is the anguish that comes of remembering that day. But Muirġa does not press; he waits.

Esca clears his throat. “Yes. My brothers died fighting. My mother… offered her throat to my father before the Romans broke through. Her brother, Enabarr, smeared me with blood and put me among the dead. I was small enough to be overlooked; young and unimportant enough only to be taken as a slave if not.” He does not add what they both know: how the Romans send those they deem important to Rome as hostages at best, or, at worst, to be paraded in the streets, in front of those baying mobs, with chains around their necks, before being executed as a symbol of Rome’s power and reach: Rome’s _peace_.

“Your father was a man of courage and honour,” Muirġa says quietly, closer now. “We mourn with you, son of Cunoval."

Esca closes his eyes and swallows hard before nodding. There would be no shame in his tears spilling, not in front of Muirġa, but so many years of holding back is a hard habit now to break.

There is a hand at the back of his head and then warm, soft lips pressed to his forehead. “You began your initiation among your people,” Muirġa says, his lips moving against Esca’s skin. His lips are a strange contrast between rough clay and soft flesh: as if the earth itself is kissing him. “Smeared in their blood, left among the dead to rise and take your place with the living. You have crossed their wall into our world and brought us payment to the gods: this Roman you have tricked.”

Lulled by his voice, quiet and hypnotic, these last words jerk Esca back to awareness. He has heard of sacrifice, but not among the _finte_ to the north, not until Nechtann had claimed it to his face upon their first meeting. “We are not them!” He pushes Muirġa back, away from him, holding him there with a hand on either shoulder. “Their honour is not ours."

“It is not,” Muirġa says, and he looks more amused than anything, his eyes bright, nor does he take Esca’s hands from his shoulders. “We will not sacrifice him, Esca. Now he is your slave. The Romans brought this pollution to our shores; what better than for a Roman to live according to the filth they have wrought? We do not sacrifice him, Esca. But his life, that is forfeit to our gods, and he lives only by your mercy… your honour."

That’s the truth of it, and Esca swallows hard, brought back to the reality of his life. He’s walking no less of a knife’s edge here than he was as a slave in Calleva. In truth, he has fewer options here.

None, really: he owes Marcus his life, and nothing else matters but his word: the word of Cunoval’s only remaining son.

“I know it,” he says to Muirġa. “All of it.” Nor is that a lie, but it’s not the truth, not in the way Esca knows Muirġa will take it.

“You do know it,” Muirġa says. “We all know it. That is why you are to be initiated into the _feann_. There is a journey to be completed. I have seen it.” He is still standing, patiently, with Esca’s hands still on his shoulders; and his skin is warm even through the fur covering them. Esca feels himself growing hot, the blood warming his neck and flowing into his face. He lets go Muirġa’s shoulders and steps back. Muirġa stands, still watching him, the smile on his lips – uncannily red against the paint on his face – more pronounced than before. “There is more,” he says quietly. “You feel it."

Esca nods. He knows now Marcus is safe, for the moment, but there’s a change in the air and this – this is beyond his ken.

“Úlla, the daughter of my father, has asked that you sire her child at the fires of Lugos."

Of all the things Esca thought Muirġa was about to say, that one never entered his head. He’s aware he’s gaping at Muirġa but he can’t seem to find words.

“Among our people, we conceive our young as Lugos was conceived and as the seals still do,” Muirġa says. “Once a year, on the strand between the ocean and the land. We mate three times, once for Lugos, once for Cernunnos, and once for Manann."

“…every year?” Esca says, mostly because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“For the initiates, it is required. They must embrace this crossing, you see. It is sacred, this marriage to the seals, to our ancestors, to the sea. For the rest of us…” Muirġa shrugs. “My _eannroin_ [[5]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note05) was conceived at my initiation but he has no brothers or sisters.” His gaze slides down Esca’s body and Esca feels himself go hot all at once. “Many men enjoy soft hills and fertile valleys. For my part, I prefer sharp spears and deep glens.”

Esca feels his heart begin to beat faster as Muirġa’s eyes meet his again, but he does not allow his courage to falter. “What has this to do with the fires of Lugos?”

“The Romans have a word that you will know,” Muirġa says. “It is a stolen word, as befits a nation of thieves and plunderers, and as such one that we too can steal from them."

“ _Polītikós_ [[6]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note06),” Esca says slowly, and Muirġa nods.

“You are Esca mac Cunoval. It is well that you become one with our people, our _feann_ , and my father sees this. It is better that you become one with my family, and this I see, and Úlla also. But she cannot initiate you into our _teglach_ , for this will be her first time on the strand as well as yours."

Despite the fact that his mind is racing, Esca can’t help smiling. “So you must fall on my spear.”

In truth, he’s wondered if he was imagining Muirġa’s apparent interest, although it has been little more than a lingering touch, an intimate smile now and again, a sidelong glance when some of the _fennidi_ [[7]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note07) would disappear into the trees, just as shield-brothers of the Brigantes used to do. None of the _fennidi_ had suggested any such to him, however; his only thought at the time was that he was not part of the _feann_. Now he wonders if it was because they knew of Muirġa’s interest.

“I am the sacrifice to your arrow, my archer,” Muirġa says, solemn. Esca stares at him for a long moment until the paint at the side of Muirġa’s mouth cracks. Then Muirġa is laughing.

Esca must, perforce, laugh as well, and it’s not as if he doesn’t see the humour in it. And laughter helps him hide his uncertainty and confusion. This is more than an initiation being proposed; it is an alliance. That alliance – not only a shield-brother and a _muinntear_ [[8]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note08), a _fine_ , but even more: a _teglach_ [[9]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note09) – is something more permanent than Esca could have believed possible. Oh, he knows the past fortnights have been a time of assessment, even testing, but Esca had been well trained by his family and then by the Romans who set him to fight for their amusement. He’s had little worry over this time save that Marcus would lose patience and betray them both despite his lack of language, but the rhythm of daily life with the _fine_ , and Muirġa’s inclusion of Esca in the _feann_ ’s hunting parties, has been a healing balm, creating a quiet peace in his heart.

But that peace has lulled him into a sense of security that, now, looms more treacherous than anything else. Nothing matters – nothing can matter – but his promise, his obligation to Marcus. He knows with a certainty he can’t name that the initiation into the _feann_ holds the key to Marcus’ precious Eagle, just as he knows with a certainty he can name that the forfeit they will both pay is death if caught. But – looking at Muirġa, convulsed with laughter at his joke – he feels a pain that is both wrenching and familiar. His heart has, in truth, found a home here: a place at Muirġa’s side, with a man worthy to be called brother. It is Esca who is unworthy: Esca who is betraying his own people, his would-be shield-brother, for a Roman and a Roman’s notion of honour.

He becomes aware too late that his laughter has stopped and he is staring at Muirġa only when Muirġa’s laughter ceases and his grin fades. He racks his brain to cover his silence, but Muirġa forestalls him with a hand raised to Esca’s face.

“Is this something you would do?” Muirġa says quietly. “I make no secret of my desire for you, but you are no slave here, Esca."

This time Esca does not try to stop the tears. He lets them spill over even as he reaches out to hold Muirġa’s palm against his cheek, and he speaks his answer without thought, the words coming from his heart. “We Brigantes call this _armas céile_[[10]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note10): shield-brother. I am honoured, _a Muirġa_.”

Muirġa nods gravely, and then repeats the words. “Shield-brother. Shields we do not use, nor do we mark ourselves.” He grips Esca’s upper arm briefly, where Esca’s marks are tattooed. “We call this _mara céile_ [[11]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note11).”

“And then you are painted?” Esca says, and Muirġa lifts a hand to Esca’s face again, brushing a thumb across his cheek, then across his mouth, lingering on Esca’s lower lip for a moment longer before letting his hand fall back to his side once again.

“We _fennidi_ are all painted after the seal marriage,” he says. “Any who leave, to hunt or to fight, for if we are killed away from the sea, the seals can find us painted thus and guide us to our ancestors there. We are all returned to Manann’s cauldron of life, where some of us may become seals and some of us may become humans, but all of us are brothers.” He smiles then, a glint in his eye. “If you are asking whether I have a sea-brother, I have. But a shield-brother? I have none.”

“Nor I,” Esca says, and he can’t hold back an answering grin. “As you have guessed, I think."

Muirġa glances over his shoulder, then back at Esca. “Were you purchased for his ease?"

“I was not,” Esca says, and try as he might he can’t keep back the heat climbing into his face. “I was purchased by his uncle as his body slave. He has an injury.”

“Has he used you thus?” Muirġa’s voice gives no indication of his reason for asking, and his expression is – as usual – unreadable.

Honesty has gotten him this far. “He has not.” And, in truth, Esca has wondered about that from time to time. Marcus is young, and relatively healthy after the surgeon at Calleva cleaned his wound, and Esca knows – from long experience – that it is common practice among the Romans to bed their slaves, women and men alike. But Marcus seems to lack interest in anything save the Eagle, and his family’s lost honour. Muirġa’s older sister has been the only one to catch Marcus’ eye during all Esca’s time with him. “Does it matter?” Bold words, perhaps, but he has learned that Muirġa prefers directness, a trait Esca has had to submerge over these past years. Being able to indulge in honesty, however limited, is intoxicating, and dangerous: he might slip too far, trust too much, forget himself, and then–

Muirġa shrugs, but there is a glimmer in his eye that tells Esca he’s amused by Esca’s response. “I thought perhaps he was not the rock he appears to be, since he seems overly interested in our conversation here. I was mistaken."

This catches Esca off guard in more ways than one: how long has Marcus been there? And what punishment will Muirġa expect Esca to enact for this insolence? He glances over his own shoulder, in the direction Muirġa is looking, and, sure enough, Marcus is standing at the base of the bluff, looking up at them, his face almost as expressionless as Muirġa’s.

Esca has time only to see the grin spreading across Muirġa’s face as he’s pulled back around. Then Muirġa’s lips are on his, soft, even yielding, yet his intent is unmistakable. “There is a ritual,” Muirġa says against his mouth.

“Isn’t there always,” Esca says in return.

Muirġa barks a laugh, surprised and genuine, and again Esca’s heart twists in his chest. He cups a hand around the back of Esca’s head and pulls Esca against him, so their foreheads touch. “I hope you are rested,” he says, his breath warm against Esca’s cheek. “This night will require our strength, and our seed."

Esca feels a tightening in his groin even as he struggles to make sense of Muirġa’s words. “Tonight?"

“The fires of Lugos are at the full of the moon,” Muirġa says, drawing back, his eyes lingering on Esca’s lips. “Is it the same with your people?"

“Not exactly,” Esca says. The weight between his legs is heavy now, and full, and he reaches up to trace Muirġa’s lips with his thumb, much the same as Muirġa had just done. “It begins at the dark of the moon, with handfasts as the moon waxes. There are games of skill, and races. We kindle fires on the mountains under the full of the moon.” He cannot keep his thoughts in line; all he can think of is the nearness of Muirġa, the press of Muirġa’s lips against his own, and… more. “I am not explaining it well."

“Games of skill,” Muirġa says, his hand at the base of Esca’s neck, his thumb on the pulse that thunders there. “I look forward to such games with you, my archer.” Esca closes his eyes briefly as Muirġa’s voice dips low; he can feel the heat of Muirġa’s body, and it seems pooled at his groin. “We must consider this,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. “Among us, there are three nights before the fires when those men who go to the strand cannot spend their seed. The full moon is but five days from now."

Esca swallows, both from Muirġa’s nearness and from his sudden awareness of how much time has passed. He and Marcus came north before the longest day of the year, and it is Luġnasa already.[[12]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note12) He has lost track of time, that much is clear. He opens his eyes to see Muirġa’s face, close to his, concern in his eyes.

“Are you well?"

“I am. It is sudden,” Esca says. “I did not think… Well. It matters not."

“I have said if this does not please you–"

“It pleases me. It pleases me… shield-brother."

“I would have been pleased some time ago,” Muirġa whispers, placing a hand on each of Esca’s shoulders. “But there was much at stake. It was necessary that I tread carefully. The son of Cunoval must be respected. The _teglach_ must be respected. The _fine_ must be respected."

“ _Polītikós_ ,” Esca says, but there is a fire kindling in his heart as he takes in Muirġa’s words, and the implications behind them. “So I was not imagining…"

“You were not,” Muirġa says, and he presses his lips to Esca’s once again. “‘Shield-brother.’ I am well pleased. And where time has been against us, it has also been for us. It marches on and those who wait to decide cannot stand in the face of it. So."

“So… it is tonight,” Esca says, and he lets the light in his heart show on his face, in his smile. He has some little idea what the particular rituals of this night will entail: Muirġa’s intimations and his own knowledge of handfasting among the Brigantes are enough that he’s aware seed must be spilled, whether it is at the fires of Lugos or the fires of Beltainne. Muirġa initiates him, so that also is clear: he must spend his seed in Esca. Esca is no stranger to that particular act, and has not been, not since he was first purchased as a slave, although now it has been several years since he was taken in such a manner.

But Muirġa is no Roman, and here Esca is no slave, as Muirġa had said. At least no slave to the Tæsgali, and no slave – at the moment – to Marcus. He has already felt his body respond to Muirġa; in fact, if he’s honest with himself, in the few times he has taken himself in hand since they arrived here, it is Muirġa’s eyes he sees when he closes his own as he brings himself to release.

He knows even under the bulk of his trousers, his hardness – impelled by his thoughts – can be seen. He looks over to see if Muirġa has had a similar response, and Muirġa follows the direction of his eyes. He smiles and flattens his hand at his belly, so that Esca can see the tent formed under the now-taut fabric, and Esca feels his mouth begin to water. He has seen many men naked. He has seen some men erect. But he has desired to see none as much as he now desires to see Muirġa. He looks back up at Muirġa and hopes all his desire shows across his face. Muirġa inhales sharply and steps back. His eyes are blazing and Esca – Esca revels in their warmth.

“Sunset is too far away,” Muirġa mutters.

“Yes,” Esca says, because there is no more to say.

“I… may not see you until then, nor you me.” His mouth twists. “You will join the elders of the _fine_ to eat. Take care, my archer.”

Esca nods. Then Muirġa glances past Esca, and mischief gleams in his eye. He leans in to touch Esca’s mouth yet again with his own, demanding more this time. Although unpracticed – Romans do not kiss their slaves – Esca answers his demand, a wildness roaming his belly and his unbidden heart singing, guessing that this is both Muirġa’s desire as well as a punishment Muirġa is choosing to inflict on Marcus, who is, clearly, still watching them. Marcus’ reaction will be confusion, certainly, and perhaps dismay, or even disgust. It may be insurance, perhaps, as well; Muirġa knows, as Esca does, that the Romans have little respect or regard for men who give of themselves to each other, as shield-brothers do. Thus far the weight of Muirġa’s suspicion is undeniably tilted in Esca’s favour but Esca is under no illusion that Nechtann’s apparent tolerance is anything less than a precarious balancing act. Nor can he blame Muirġa for wanting to punish Marcus with this reality; he knows his father would do the same as Muirġa and as Nechtann.

Well. Perhaps not exactly the same. Where Cunoval mounted the skulls of his enemies on the outermost walls of their dún[[13]]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#note13), as his father had, and his before that, Nechtann leaves many to simply weather and bleach in the woods and streams and gullies, with a carelessness that ought to chill Marcus, and any other Roman, to the bone, speaking as it does to Nechtann’s convictions.

And yet Nechtann is agreeing to this alliance, but perhaps only because Muirġa wishes it. Muirġa has brought some argument or pressure to bear, he and perhaps his sister, that has made Nechtann assent; Nechtann himself does not see the need, Esca is almost certain, and it is equally certain that he does not trust Esca even now.

And why should he? Esca feels reality rush back to coil, cold and heavy, like an adder in his stomach, menacing and watchful and filled with poison. Nechtann has the right of it, if he does not trust Esca. Esca is continually being lulled by his heart into thinking his presence here is honourable, that he can stay. That he has a choice.

“See to him,” Muirġa is saying in a low voice. “See to this Roman slave, Esca, for if he continues to look at you thus, I may forget the honour I owe you as our guest.” He puts a hand on the back of Esca’s neck and rubs his thumb and forefinger up into Esca’s hair, then turns abruptly and stalks away. Esca looks back again at Marcus and, sure enough, Marcus has climbed the slope to stand just out of earshot; at the base of the bluff, where Marcus had been standing, two _fennidi_ stand now, looking stolidly out to sea.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

1. To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace. - Oxford Revised Translation; also found in David Braund.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_01) to the story.

2. _Feann_ : band of warriors; in the film, it appears most of the young men of fighting age are painted and are thus _fennidi_ , the plural of _fenned_ , or warrior. This connotes a 'band of brothers'. While in some stories they were regarded as outlaws, in other stories, it was common practice for the young men to roam the country in the summer, hunting and fighting - and probably relieving the village of their hormones and risk-taking. Pronounced 'fahn'.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_02) to the story.

3. _Folús_ means emptiness, vacuum, void.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_03) to the story.

4. _Fine_ : roughly, tribe, people. Implies a common culture and/or kin group. Pronounced 'finnuh'. The plural form is _finte_.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_04) to the story.

5. _Eannroin _means little seal; this is a sort of honorific for the children of the ruling family ( _teglach_ ).  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_05) to the story.__

____

6. _Polītikós_ : politics. This assumes that Esca - having served in the household of Uncle Aquila - would have known this word, which the Romans borrowed from the Greeks.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_06) to the story.

7. _Fennidi_ : warriors, the plural of _fenned_ (warrior).  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_07) to the story.

8. In modern Irish, _muintir_ ; it means people, folk, community.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_08) to the story.

9. _Teglach_ means family or household, but it also implies a retinue, a household in the royal sense; it’s a word that can mean a kin group and is often used to refer to an extended/related family from which, for instance, a king may be chosen. See the [kinship diagram](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936999/chapters/43007315) for an outline of Muirġa's _teglach_.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_09) to the story.

10. Shield-brother (literally, shield marriage). This is for real. I ran across it in my Irish dictionary. I have discovered there is no substitute for sitting down and reading a dictionary, which, oddly enough, is also how I spent a great deal of my youth.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_10) to the story.

11. Essentially, sea marriage (with a concomitant sea-brother), with the same connotation that the Brigantes have for shield-marriage/shield-brother.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_11) to the story.

12. For the purposes of this story, and assuming they came north over the Cairngorms (hence the snow), this takes place over the summer. The Brigantes' main festival was Beltainne, when the Great Marriage was celebrated. Since the Seal People are much further north, their main festival is Lughnasadh, in the heat of August when life in the North Sea is much warmer than it is in June. However, their general approaches are the same in terms of handfasting and fertility rites, with bonus initiations.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_12) to the story.

13. Dún means 'village' or 'town'. It’s pronounced much the same as it looks. You can see where the word 'town' came from.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503241#orig_13) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I was only walking through your neigbourhood,_  
>  _Saw your light on, honey, in the cold I stood,_  
>  _Anywhere I go there you are_  
>   
>  ~Fire and the Flood, Vance Joy


	2. You tell me what you saw and I'll tell you what you missed

“Come here,” Esca says, raising his voice enough for the _fennidi_ to also hear. Marcus is slow to obey, not that Esca can blame him; and in fact the more sullen and reluctant he is, the better it looks. Not for the first time does Esca wish he could allay Marcus’ fears, but Marcus is too bad an actor. If Esca gives him a smile now, a word of friendship, he will grin all the way down the hill, the spring restored to his step, and their hope lost.

“You must busy yourself,” Esca says instead, stern and unsmiling. “There are rituals and ceremonies. I am to join the rest of the–” He casts about for the word; after even this short time with the Tæsgali, the Roman tongue is strange to him once more. It is no matter, after all; Marcus would understand neither the words nor the ideas behind them. “Your presence will not be tolerated. Their patience grows thin."

Marcus is staring at him, a thundercloud weighting his brow. As Esca returns his gaze, the first fat raindrops of his anger begin to spatter about them. “Their patience? _Their_ patience! Mine is past exhausted! You cannot tell me rutting with _him_ , that savage–"

“Enough!” Esca roars, and Marcus stops short, two clumsy spots of red burning high on his cheeks. That is sufficient that the two men waiting begin to come towards them. “I do not answer to you any longer,” he says, slowly and clearly, so if either man understands enough of Roman speech, what will be reported back to Nechtann and Muirġa will add to their cover. “Do not shame me by your deeds."

“You shame yourself, slave!” Marcus shouts, in the grip of fury. Esca knows it well, the red haze that descends, the feeling of time slowing, and underneath it all the impotent rage that comes of knowing you are helpless and must bow to the will of your captors… or die.

“As a slave,” Esca says as forbiddingly as he can muster, “you know that you say what you must, and do what you must, in order to survive.” He nods at Maróg and Urḃolg, who take Marcus by the arms. “If you will, escort him to his place,” Esca says in their own tongue.

“He will cause trouble, brother,” Urḃolg says. “Tonight he must not."

“Set a guard on him if you are pleased,” Esca says, suddenly weary. “You know what is best. Much of this is new to me.”

Maróg nods approvingly at Urḃolg; Esca sees it, although he’s certain he was not meant to. So much the better, to have less suspicion among the _fennidi_ , and to show himself humble in the face of the place he is attaining.

Marcus looks from one to the other, then back to Esca. “I should never have trusted you. A crow will not pick out the eye of another crow.”

Esca schools his expression to placidity or, at least, disinterest; it is a lesson he’s had trouble learning, as a Roman slave, but one that stands him in good stead now; and he does not return Marcus’ gaze.

“It is time he began to earn his keep,” Urḃolg says, his voice as sour as his face. “We will set him to hauling water."

Maróg grins, his teeth flashing white. “He will be too tired to cause trouble.”

“It is well,” Esca says. “I thank you.”

He leaves them to escort Marcus, who looks over his shoulder once or twice as he disappears with the two _fennidi_ in the direction of the rocky beach. The Tæsgali dún drains into a small, wide inlet on the other side of the headland where Esca now sits, flushed twice daily by the rhythm of the sea; the drains in the dún are themselves are flushed with water hauled up from the beach. [[14]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note14) When the _fennidi_ are not out hunting, they help to haul the water.

Up until now Marcus has been left alone to mind the horses and to clean fish and gut rabbits, but clearly Maróg and Urḃolg, and perhaps others among them, have had their own minds set as to what Marcus ought to be doing.

Nor can Esca fault them, although he worries, in a strange unclouded part of his mind, what it might do to them if they were to become dependent, as Romans are, on slaves. Their lives cannot sustain a slave population; although the Tæsgali _fine_ is a thriving one, Esca knows, all too well, how much a bad year can change a single _fine_ ’s fortunes. It is why allies are so important, especially now that the Romans are ravaging the land in a way that hail, or drought, or too much rainfall, could never have done; because the Romans never leave, are never _over_.

But that worry is easily dismissed, after all: the Tæsgali are no Romans, bent on empire and conquest. Nor are the Selgovæ, or the Damnonii. Nor were the Brigantes – and his heart skips a beat in sadness and memory.

Perhaps, if they had been, the Romans would not have been able to slaughter them.

Abruptly, as he has done for seven years, Esca reins in his thoughts as he would a fractious horse.

The Romans conquer because they can; they enslave because they must. It is how their world functions: soldiers, conquests, slaves. If they lay waste to entire _finte_ , it is of no consequence to them: they will grant those now-empty lands to such soldiers as Marcus, and his uncle, to displace those who came before, and create more soldiers and take more slaves, creeping across the land like a fungus covering a log.

Until they reached the north. The Romans might tell themselves their wall is a triumph, a bulwark of civilization, but to Esca the wall speaks to the Romans’ defeat: this far, and no further. Cunoval, and Nechtann, and the defeat of Marcus’ precious Legion, are behind the rationale for this wall. Just as the killing fields of the Roman legion is the place of heroes for all their people, the wall is the mark of the Romans’ fear, a symbol of their shame – and the hope for Esca and all his people that they can survive, fight back, even, perhaps, win.

It is in this frame of mind that he goes to join Nechtann and his woman, who is not, as Muirġa took some pains to tell him, his own mother, who died many years ago, but, rather, a kinswoman of his mother’s and the mother of his two sisters, the older one, Uaimh, who found Marcus worthy of her gaze, and the younger, Úlla, who hopes to go to the strand – with Esca – for the first time this summer. So Esca joins them to eat, and to hope Nechtann does not poison him, although, in that case, at least his cares would be over.

This morbid thought twists his lips into a wry smile as he crosses the dún to his fate. The hearth where Nechtann eats is more than usually crowded this night, attended by many of the elders of the _fine_. Neither Úlla nor her sister is in evidence, only their mother, and none of the _fennidi._  Esca imagines Muirġa eating with his brothers around a fire, laughter and ribald jokes surrounding the topic of the forthcoming night’s activity in the same way it once did among the shield-brothers of the Brigantes.

By contrast, Nechtann’s hearth is quiet, almost decorous, and Esca finds himself shrinking down, trying to become smaller, speaking only when he is spoken to and being as deferential as he can to those around him. He hopes this will be attributed to nerves, or perhaps to anticipation; in reality, he is weary to his bones, tired of worrying every second, tired of trying to maintain a pretense that he is no longer sure is one. 

The import of the night is steadily becoming more and more apparent as his thoughts chase each other. This step, he’s starting to realise, is more important, in every way, than the initiation to be held soon at the fires of Lugos. That initiation makes him one with the _fine_. But this - this initiation makes him one with Nechtann’s _teglach_.

For a few moments he toys with the notion of staying here, of waiting for the eventual death of Nechtann to ask, to convince Muirġa to return Marcus’ Eagle.

But in his heart he knows they have no time for that, not unless he were to betray Marcus utterly and altogether, for years upon years. And Marcus clearly still has some thread of hope, even if he himself is not aware of it; otherwise he would have stolen the horses and run off, back to the wall, back to Calleva, back to Rome, days or even weeks ago.

He realises he’s staring into the fire, lost in the flames, only when Nechtann’s woman – Muirġa has never named her to Esca – touches his shoulder gently. He glances up at her, then across to Nechtann, who’s looking more weary than Esca has ever seen him. For some reason, that twists Esca’s gut into a knot.

“You will rest, and have some time to contemplate before the sun sets,” she says, and Nechtann nods in agreement.

“I will come when it is time to do my son’s will,” he says. There is a low murmur among those still seated around the hearth, but, looking up, Esca sees that the _teg_ has cleared out almost completely. Those remaining are the true elders, those of Nechtann’s _teglach_ : Muirġa’s uncle, Allidd, a kindly old man with white hair and a round face; Iuuar [[15]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note15), a kinsman to Muirġa’s long-dead mother, an elder seemingly only by virtue of his authority, and not his age, since his body is still wiry and strong, his hair still brown, shot through with only a few grey threads here and there, his face, while lined, as yet unwrinkled; and Bridei, thin but potbellied, with grey hair and a hostile mien that seems permanent (at least when directed at Esca), who is called _tanist_ , although he has little authority that Esca has seen among the _fine_ and none at all among the _fennidi_.

Among the Brigantes, Muirġa would be called _tanist_ , as Esca’s oldest brother Cartival was. But among the Tæsgali, Muirġa, though clearly his father’s heir, is called _rí féinne_ [[16]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note16), and Bridei is _tanist_. Esca has some idea this difference has to do with Muirġa’s mother, but he has yet to learn if this is the truth. [[17]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note17)

Nechtann has been speaking even while Esca’s mind wanders. “Go you now with Bearrach. She will see to your needs."

The sun is sinking in the sky when they emerge, leaving a bright path across the water, although it will still be some time before it sets. He expects Bearrach to lead him to the large _teg_ in which the _fennidi_ generally sleep; instead she takes him to the shore, where she tells him to bathe in the sea while she turns her back to him and sits on a rock. He wonders if it is part of the ritual or if she is marking time to sunset. As it stands, since she is not in a hurry, he swims to a rock in the bay and back, enjoying the taste of the ocean on his tongue, and the clear water, at least compared to the ponds and lakes that were found in the lands of his youth. The ocean life has much to recommend it, he thinks, as he dries himself with his outer tunic and dresses again.

Bearrach comes to stand by him as he ties the laces at his ankles, running a hand through his hair as if she is his own mother. He looks up at her, startled and grateful, and smiles without meaning to. There is a brief, answering smile on her own face before it disappears, leaving her as expressionless as Muirġa. This time she leads him to a hill towards the south. It is only as they draw nearer, skirting the base of the hill, that he realises it isn’t a hill at all but a stone _teg_ , thick-walled and with a roof of turf and grass. Esca has heard of these – sometimes they are low, sometimes high, but always round and made of stone – but the Brigantes never built them. As far as he knows, it’s only a large _teg_ , but as they climb towards it, Bearrach teaches him their word for it: _borra_. [[18]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note18)

Esca can’t help laughing. He has had some practice with the throaty double sound over the past fortnights but it is not a sound Brigantes use, and here it is twice in the space of two breaths, her name and that of the stone _teg_. Bearrach smiles as he repeats it: “ _Borra_."

The entrance is low, almost a tunnel because the walls are very thick, but there is some light within. Clearly it is not enough for Bearrach, who lights several torches and then kindles a fire at the hearth with the coals she brought with her in a small pot. While she is thus occupied, Esca lights the other torches, taking the opportunity to explore. There is a stone couch inside, heaped with furs. There are two stone frames that bear heather and bracken mattresses, also piled high with skins, and Esca feels his face heat. Opposite the door there is a small altar; Esca recognizes some carvings there. In the shadows, near the last torch, there are steps leading down, in a circle. Bearrach joins him, peering into the dark well. [[19]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note19)

“There is a cistern below, if you are in need of water,” she says. “It is fresh water, so you may drink it. But I have brought you mead, and some water as well. Your work will leave you thirsty tonight."

“What is this place?” Esca asks. “We Brigantes do not have these."

“A _borra_ is a place of ritual,” she says briefly. “As well, a place of refuge, and a place of solitude for those who need it."

It is easily defended too, Esca thinks, but does not say so. With the door barred and enough food, perhaps one could escape the attention of the Romans, were they to come this far. But clearly that is not what it was built for: the Romans have not come this far, nor has anyone else to Esca’s knowledge. At least, no one bent on conquest. The _finte_ have always had their differences, and that will continue as long as people are people, but of all the filth the Romans have brought to this shore, that idea of empire, even more so than slavery, is the worst, in Esca’s mind.

“You should rest now,” Bearrach says. “Nechtann will return when the sun sets. And you must remember the People of the Seals are in front of you now. Do not look over your shoulder; it gives fire to those who oppose this.”

Esca bows his head, as if accepting her warning, well meant, he knows; but he watches her from beneath his eyelashes. “Who sets his face against this? Nechtann?” It is a bow drawn at a venture, and he does not expect an answer. But to his surprise, she glances over her shoulder and then moves in close to him.

“There is much you do not yet know,” she says quietly. “But there is some you do know."

“Is this not Muirġa’s will?” Esca says, equally quietly, doing his best to hide his shock. “How did he–"

“That is not my story to tell. You must seek answers from him. Rest now."

He doesn’t rest, however, at least not immediately. How could he? He waits for Bearrach to depart and then takes a torch again and explores the room beneath, to keep himself from thinking. Rooms: there is the cistern, which he finds in a small antechamber near the foot of the steps, flanked by a water closet, no doubt draining to the same place as the rest of the dún, and then a larger room, under the earth but lined with dry stone, with an altar in the middle, where a hearth should be, fragments of bone and skin, and many pots lining the wall, most with skin coverings tied on, that are undoubtedly mead and grain stores. He was not forbidden this room: he is sure he would have been told, otherwise; but all the same he retreats hastily. He has not been initiated and he is here unbidden. At the same time, this room and the one above are far too small to accommodate rituals involving the _fine_ , or even the _feann_. And, more significantly, the Eagle is not here. This is a place of importance, that much is clear, but perhaps mostly to Nechtann’s _teglach_ , and not to the entire _fine_.

Esca returns to the hearth; the fire has warmed the upper chamber now and it is a pleasant feeling. He goes back outside through the low opening to look out towards the sea. The sun is lower now, but a long way from setting. Perhaps he should heed Bearrach and take his ease while he can. He chooses the bedstead farthest from the door, satisfies himself with a long draught of mead, and sinks into the skins to stare at the patterns the firelight makes on the stone walls. He tries to keep his mind on the Eagle; he is more certain than ever it must be here. But if it is not in the _borra_ , then it is a talisman for the whole _fine_ , and must be in a place sacred to them all-

He shuts his eyes and turns on his side. He has not been much alone since they were discovered by the Seal People. It is luxurious to simply not have to pretend, to worry, to act, to think about everything he says and does. Marcus’ Eagle can - must - wait.

Having resolved to set it out of his mind, he realises the catch: now he has time to reflect on the rituals – tonight’s, and the upcoming initiation on the strand – and neither prospect leaves him easy in his heart or his head. He can lay with Úlla; he has lain with a girl before, so that does not concern him. When he was first sold, the buyer went home with several children: Esca, who seemed despite his years to not yet be a man because of his stature, a Coriotauvi boy, Deargan, who had several years fewer than Esca, and a Carvetii girl, whom the Romans called Girsa [[20]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#note20), on the cusp of womanhood, her breasts just starting to bud. There were some murmurings among those at the auction. There probably were some in the crowd as well, but at the time Esca understood little and spoke less of the Romans’ tongue. It was clear the Roman had a purpose in buying them – he outbid several others – and Esca remembers a hand on his shoulder as he and the other two were led away: a woman with a mass of golden hair, like his mother, her face heavily bruised on one side, had whispered, “A curse on them all."

As far as Esca knew in his grief and loneliness, their new owner, Porcius Licinus, was not unkind – he rarely beat them, and he liked to set Esca and Deargan to spar with each other, coached by an older slave – but he was never sated. He preferred Deargan, but Esca came in for his share, and the girl spent many a night with him. Midway through their first year, her courses came and her breasts swelled, and their owner turned his attention even more to the boys, taking her only once or twice a month. After a year, when she had attained the curves of womanhood and her courses came regularly, he began to speak of selling her since she was of no use either in bed or to breed more slaves. Esca knew – they all did – that their owner was often impotent with her; his seed was spent with the boys, increasingly Deargan. One night, near the full moon, when Deargan had been called to their owner, Esca was awakened by her thin hands on his body, one over his mouth, the other between his legs. Esca could give her a child, she whispered; she was not blind, as their owner was; she knew he had entered manhood.

The summer and much of the fall went by before she caught, their couplings of necessity quick and furtive; but when she missed her courses twice, their owner’s body slave passed the word. She was given a new dress and excused from all work save spinning and weaving.

As she swelled with his child, Esca grew increasingly restless and angry. It was as if a blanket had lifted from his senses, dulled since he was pulled out of the ditch where he lay among the bodies of his _fine_ , a Roman legionary grinning, his face foul and filthy, thunderclouds looming in the sky behind him _._  As spring came, Esca began to hear birds again, and smell the trees when they bloomed; he began to see the colours of the sunsets, and to taste new life on the wind.

He was not in love with her, of course, nor she him, but he had a great, fierce affection for her courage, her quick intelligence; and it was wrong, sickeningly wrong, that she had to bear a child in slavery – her child, and his child, the blood of Cunoval and Candieda. He took to fighting more and more aggressively; thus their owner liked to watch him fight, but no longer bedded him. When her child proved to be healthy, and male, Esca ran away for the first time. He made it almost to the wall before he was caught; and he was beaten and sold to Asinius Pollio, a soldier-turned-farmer.

That soldier had no interest in any save his farm, his Roman-born wife, and their two small children. He put Esca in the stables, where he helped with the horses and the hunting, the planting and the harvest, and where he grew fluent in the Roman tongue. But then tragedy struck: the older child, a girl, sickened and died. The younger child, a boy, grew thin and sickly. Physicians were sent for; the villa was closed up and the family went to Aquae Sulis to consult a physician there. It was to no avail; the boy died too, in the spring of the next year. His wife blamed the country, the slaves, the weather; she was mad in her grief. The soldier sold them all and his farm, took his wife, and left for Gaul. That was the second time Esca tried to run away, counting on the confusion. The confusion did not stop him from being caught, but it also meant that he was subjected to no punishment other than a desultory beating before being put back in with the others.

So after almost five years in captivity, Esca was bought for a third time, by Quintus Albius Carrinas, a rich Roman with a large household who lived near his first owner, near Calleva. Esca’s fluency in the Roman tongue and his knowledge of horses was of use in the stables, and his strength was valuable in the fields; this owner was not interested in male house slaves. The man in charge of the stables used all the slaves as he could and when he could, in a business-like manner that he had clearly learned from the Romans, which made those intimacies more bearable. Nor was he a harsh taskmaster, and he encouraged those who liked to hunt or fight to practice their skills on horseback or with the former soldier who trained the sons and foster sons of the house. But the stable master was insolent to their owner, who beat him and sold him, and replaced him with another, a capricious and malicious weasel of a man who delighted in blood and pain.

One day, on his way back from selling a horse, Esca caught sight of the Carvetii girl carrying a small child with flame-coloured hair on her back. That night the weasel beat one of the young slaves for some imagined infraction. As his arm wearied, his eyes had roved across the slaves he had forced to stand and watch. Finally he singled out Esca to take over when his arm got tired. Esca took the whip, but when the weasel pulled out his rod, already stiff, and began to fondle it, barking at Esca to hurry up, Esca turned the whip on him instead. He fought off several slaves who came to the weasel’s defense, finally subjugated only by the old centurion in charge of training.

He was almost killed, and in truth welcomed death. No matter what his mother had said, living as a slave was pointless: it wasn’t life at all. Surely she could not have meant this. He ought to have been put to death, the old legionary told him, but instead he was sold to the gladiator ring, his death meant to provide entertainment for their conquerors, their enslavers, their empire.

Those in charge at the gladiator ring left him severely alone, which he had not expected. He was thankful for it, in the way a dog with a cruel master is thankful for not being kicked. They had the slaves practice daily with wooden swords and shields, as if they were children, but guarded and watched as if they were a threat. One evening he overheard, in the curious echoes of the cool earthen corridors, two of the jailers talking. That the subject was him became clear after only a few moments; that the subject was, more specifically, his body and the jailer’s use of it was clear a heartbeat later.

“Keep clear of those marked for death,” the older jailer said in response, and when the younger one laughed, he continued as if there had been no outburst. “You think they are no danger, lacking any weapon. These savages will tear out your throat with their teeth, laughing all the while. Take your ease with the kitchen slaves like the rest of us."

The image rushed over Esca like a wave and left him shivering, drenched in ecstasy. He could feel the stubbled skin of the throat between his teeth; he could feel the windpipe resisting; he could feel the soft flesh give, the cords beneath severed. He could feel the warm rush of blood, taste the copper tang and salt on the back of his tongue. He would throw back his head and laugh, watching his enemy die, a Roman drowning in the blood that would cover them both. He was not a dog, cowed and beaten; he was a wolf - and, more to the point, a wolf with nothing left to lose.

He never got the opportunity. He was sorry for it, in a way. On the day he was taken to the ring to face his death, he looked around at the slavering crowd, the snarling dogs of Rome. But he was a wolf, unbroken and soon to be freed. He cast his shield and sword aside, contempt lining every wall of his heart. He would not fight for their amusement, for their proxy blood thirst. He was done with Rome. At the last, when the sword hovered over his chest, the face of his executioner hidden because the Romans could not even face themselves – it was why they worshipped a two-faced god, after all – he did not close his eyes. There was no family here, no father who would be eased by that small mercy. There was only the enemy, and he would face his fate with clear eyes, open and unblinking.

And then the tenor of the crowd’s roar had begun to change. He had not understood it; they knew he was meant to die, just as he did. But there was a young Roman in the crowd, a citizen, who caught his eye and then looked away again, roaring at those around him, his thumb outstretched, pointing upward.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

14. This arrangement is attested in the archeological evidence, for example, the excavation of Skara Brae (<http://www.orkneyjar.com/history/skarabrae/index.html>); see also Emma Ailes, 'Scotland and the indoor toilet', BBC News, <https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-22214728>.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_14) to the story.

15. Or 'Ivar'; this is an attested Pictish name.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_15) to the story.

16. _Rí féinne_ means leader of the war band - literally, 'war king' (the leader of the armed forces).  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_16) to the story.

17. In some places, the tanist was the elected second in command, often from another teglach. In other places, the tanist was chosen by the king when he himself became king. Muirġa is the leader of the war band, the feann - rí means “king.” Given that the Tæsgali, as conceived here, are a largely matrilineal culture, the tanist, if not in the direct line of matrilineal descent, would serve only as an interim leader until the next king was confirmed; and Bridei is not in the direct line of descent. Politically it makes sense, since the next heir, Muirġa, is in a position as the leader of the war band that makes his death more rather than less likely; possibly, if and when he retired as the _rí féinne_ , he would be named tanist. Or possibly not. It’s hard to tell with Nechtann, since Bridei rather than Iuuar is currently serving as his tanist, and Iuuar was the _rí féinne_ before Muirġa.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_17) to the story.

18. The word _teg_ means house (from the same root as teglach); _borra_ means, roughly, burrow, but is the closest non-Nordic word to indicate the round stone towers that were scattered across the northeastern part of Scotland; they were called _brochs_ by the Norse/Scandinavians.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_18) to the story.

19. Some of these furnishings have been inspired by the archaeological record at Skara Brae (e.g., <http://www.orkneyjar.com/history/skarabrae/skarab1.htm>) and some are my own invention; please don't hold the archaeologists responsible for any of my errors.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_19) to the story.

20. _Girsa_ is an Irish word for girl.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503373#orig_20) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You tell me what you saw and I'll tell you what you missed_  
>  when the ocean met the sky
> 
> ~Ocean Breathes Salty, Modest Mouse


	3. Your hands on my cheeks, your shoulder in my mouth

He had not expected to sleep as deeply as he must have; he is wakened by low voices outside, echoing in the long, low entrance. Sitting up, he takes another draught of mead as he gets his feet under him, hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Nechtann enters, followed by the _teglach_ elders, as Esca had expected. He scrambles to his feet, gracelessly, still not quite awake, but Nechtann smiles, showing all his teeth. “Slept you well?” he asks, but does not wait for an answer. “We begin shortly, when Muirġa arrives. Allidd–” he nods at where Allidd and Iuuar are standing– “speaks for you, while my _tanist_ speaks for my son.”

Allidd smiles at Esca, who smiles back; he glances next at Bridei, who stares fixedly ahead, not making eye contact at all. Iuuar’s face is as expressionless as Muirġa’s, and Esca feels his own smile falter. Then Allidd’s hand is on his arm, drawing him into the shadows near the altar to acquaint him with the upcoming ritual. But Esca cannot concentrate; he starts at every sound from outside, and wonders anew if all the elders remain for the night. Although he is certain he understands the rudiments, he suddenly wishes he had pressed Muirġa more closely on what this spear-falling entails. But Allidd doesn’t seem put out by Esca’s distraction; he puts a hand on Esca’s shoulder and says, “Not to worry, _a ṁac_ [[21]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note21); I will be at your side to aid you.”

Esca desperately suppresses a laugh he knows is mirthless: he can only hope Allidd does not mean that literally.

There is a stirring and a rustle from outside, and then a man emerges into the _borra_ from the entry way. It takes Esca a moment to recognize him in the dim light: he has rarely seen Muirġa without his paint before, and never with his hair unbound. His face is ruddy in the firelight, a stark contrast to the grey of his shirt, the greys and blacks of the furs on his shoulders; he is a stranger. Then Muirġa catches his eye and smiles and Esca feels the knots in his stomach dissolve almost instantly. Two _fennidi_ follow him, both still painted: one is tall Calcach, Bridei’s son, Esca knows; the other, Áed, with a broad chest and tawny hair, is kin to Muirġa as well.

“Are you well?” Nechtann asks Muirġa, who nods, then, when Nechtann looks away, shrugs at Esca. Esca can’t stop an answering smile, but he schools his features into appropriate solemnity when Nechtann looks past him at Allidd. “It is well?”

“We may begin,” Allidd says.

“ _A ṁuinntear na ḟarraige, a ṁuinntear na rónta_ [[22]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note22),” Nechtann intones. “From this day we welcome an honoured traveler into our blood and henceforth we call him brother, and son, and cousin.” He gestures and Allidd pushes Esca forward, towards the hearth. Muirġa takes his place opposite Esca, on the other side of the fire. “ _A Ṁuirġa uí Neṁnainn_ , _Faolta Marfóra_ , from this day you face the fire, the sun, and the sea with Esca mac Cunoval. The health of this our _teglach_ depends on the strength of our bonds. Will a seal speak for you?”

“I will,” Bridei says.

“Muirġa undertakes this willingly?” Nechtann says to him. “This bond of blood can be erased by nothing in our understanding, in this world or the next, and this life-debt will be his always.”

“He understands, and he accepts,” Bridei says, and takes the dagger Nechtann is holding out. Esca stares at it, wild-eyed, then at Muirġa, then at Allidd and Bridei, and, finally, at Iuuar; and Iuuar, of them all, stares back at him, a faint wrinkle showing between his eyes.

“ _A Esca ṁic Chunoval_ , son of heroes, from this day you face the fire, the sun, and the sea with Muirġa ua Neṁnainn, _lenn a teglaig na rónta, a ṁuinntear na ḟarraige_. You have seen the destruction of your people; you bring your blood here, to be mingled with ours and continue from your past to our future. Will a seal speak for you?”

Allidd’s hand is warm on Esca’s shoulder; Esca could not speak if he wanted to for the lump in his throat. He had not understood until this moment the gravity of this belonging. But it is too late now, far too late: it is no wonder Nechtann opposed this for Muirġa, his only son, accepting a life-debt to bring Esca into his _teglach_ , standing surety for Esca’s goodwill and honour. Again he looks at Muirġa but Muirġa’s attention is on his father; once more it is Iuuar who is watching him, carefully, it seems, still with that faint frown on his face; and Esca can’t blame him: none of this was what he would choose for a kinsman of his own.

“I speak for Esca mac Cunoval,” Allidd says, a hand tightening on Esca’s shoulder to pull him forward to where he can stand face to face with Muirġa. Bridei pulls the knife across Muirġa’s wrist, lightly enough but leaving a line of blood behind. He holds the knife out to Allidd, who does the same to Esca’s wrist.

Nechtann takes each of their wrists in his hands and brings them together, clasping his hands around their arms to mingle their blood. “Thus it begins,” he says. “Here, with fire and earth. It continues to sky and then to sea, where life begins anew.” He takes a small pot from Iuuar, who is standing behind him, and dips a finger into it. Allidd presses on Esca’s shoulder and Esca realises tardily that he should kneel. Muirġa is already kneeling, looking up at his father. Nechtann presses the finger to Esca’s mouth, then to Muirġa’s, and Esca tastes the sweetness of honey.

“This is the sweetness of life,” Nechtann says, handing the pot back to Iuuar and taking a pouch next from his belt. “This is the bitterness.” He follows the honeyed finger with a bitter, gritty paste of herbs. “Death follows life.” He bends to the hearth and picks up ashes, smudging both Esca and Muirġa’s foreheads with a small charred bit, then blowing the ash from his palm into their faces. “And life is renewed in the sea.” Another pot, but this time Nechtann splashes water in their faces. “Walk you now with honour and courage in our _teglach_ ,” he says. “ _A Esca ṁic Chunoval_ , we name you now Esca mac Cunoval ua Neṁnainn. When an _eannroin_ is born to you, Cunoval will be his name, so the father lives on through the people of the seals.”

The room is slanting oddly around Esca; there are sparks caught in an updraft and he watches them dreamily. Then Muirġa is pulling at one shoulder, and Allidd the other, coaxing him to his feet. Muirġa leans in to whisper, “The honey is herbed. Soon it will pass.” [[23]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note23) It takes a physical effort for Esca to turn his head and look at Muirġa, the words jumbling together in his head and making no sense.

“Did you not prepare him?” Muirġa hisses at Allidd.

“It was me,” Esca tries to say, but he is not sure if his mouth is actually forming words. “I was not listening.” He has had wine, as a slave of the Romans, and of course he has had mead, growing up Brigantes, but he has never felt his head swimming like this before, almost as if he is a seal and could breathe underwater, all his motions slow and graceful and exaggerated.

He hears Muirġa make an exasperated sound, but he is trying to focus on Nechtann, who has pulled Muirġa aside and is saying something to him, quiet and deliberate, before turning on his heel and leaving, just as deliberately. Then Bridei follows, then Allidd, then Iuuar. When he looks around again, slowly, with a sense of time lost, Áed and Calcach are also gone and he and Muirġa are alone.

“Do you not feel it?” he tries to ask Muirġa, but again he is not certain that words are being formed.

“I feel it,” Muirġa says, pulling Esca close in. “I have felt it before, so it is not new to me. It will soon pass. Drink this.” He holds up the pot with the mead in it and helps Esca drink, then takes a drink himself. “Come, close your eyes, breathe slowly.”

Esca feels the stone couch behind his knees and sits gracelessly, in a surprised tangle of arms and legs. Muirġa’s laughter shakes both of them; Muirġa is tangled with him, half on and half off the couch. Esca tries to roll off him, to disentangle them, but Muirġa holds him close and instead rolls with him, so Esca is beneath him and Muirġa on top now, the two of them fully on the couch now.

“Allidd was tasked to tell you,” Muirġa says, propping himself up on one elbow. “It is better if you are expecting it.”

“He did,” Esca says, closing his eyes so the room will stop moving. It doesn’t help. “I am sure of it. I could not hear him.”

“Are you worried?” Muirġa says, and he sounds so honestly surprised that Esca forces his eyes open and tries to focus.

“I was,” Esca says.

“But why?” Muirġa says, frowning. “You have done this before.”

“I have not done _this_ before,” Esca says, closing his eyes again and speaking through his teeth. “You know I have not. Only what the Romans have done, what they wanted; not what our people do, not what we want.”

“Ahh,” Muirġa says, and when Esca opens his eyes again to look at him, Muirġa is solemn, almost sad. “No. You have not done this before, and you are right to regard it with the gravity it deserves. This is sacred, this joining between your _teglach_ and ours. I offer my apology, _a Esca ṁic Chunoval_.”

“ _Uí Neṁnainn_ ,” Esca says, and he can’t keep a smile from his lips, a hand from Muirġa’s neck. “There is no need, shield-brother. My heart is not harmed by this. It floats free. It joins with the sparks in the fire.” He has a nagging thought at the back of his head but he can’t encompass it now. He is drifting freely, anchored only by Muirġa’s weight atop him, pinning him down. Otherwise he would fly through the air with the sparks, dancing freely in the dark, unable to be captured.

“My heart is harmed by you, Esca,” Muirġa says, his voice low and rough, and then his lips are on Esca’s, his tongue piercing the seal of Esca’s mouth. Their tongues meet, then plunder; as Muirġa’s lips trail down Esca’s neck, Esca writhes beneath him. “ _Eascann, eascann beag_ ,” [[24]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note24) Muirġa whispers against the base of Esca’s throat, and Esca tightens his fingers on Muirġa’s head, tangled in Muirġa’s hair. “Let me see you.”

“And I you,” Esca says dreamily. “Never have I seen you unpainted, shield-brother. Do you lie with your sea-brothers thus?”

“We do,” Muirġa says. “I do not wish to speak of that now, here, with you.”

Esca opens his eyes again; Muirġa is regarding him gravely. “This is beyond me,” Esca says, and he feels helpless on every front.

“You would not know,” Muirġa says. “But I do not wish to speak of that here, with you. I wish to see you naked. I wish you to think of me, here with you, my spear buried deep within you. You do not have sea-brothers. You will need none.”

“None,” Esca echoes, nodding. “I want none.”

“What do you want, Esca?” Muirġa says, insistent, as if recalling Esca to himself. “Do you want this? Did you want the Roman?”

Esca laughs; he can’t help himself. “The Roman? It is not me he wants. He wants no one at all.”

“It is not what I ask,” Muirġa says, his voice harsh now.

“I do not want him,” Esca says. “What does it matter? I am his no longer.”

“You are mine now,” Muirġa says, and Esca must have closed his eyes again because he feels Muirġa’s lips up close against his, his breath warm and cool by turns. “Say it.”

“Yours,” Esca whispers. “As you are mine.”

“Now we are of one blood,” Muirġa says, and this time he plunders Esca’s mouth, merciless and thorough, until Esca is writhing beneath him, his manhood hard as a rock against Muirġa’s.

He remembers Muirġa shrugging out of his coat; he remembers pulling the grey doeskin shirt off over Muirġa’s head, then stopping, with it still covering Muirġa’s face, to stare at his pale chest, almost as hairless as Esca’s own, as he reaches out a hesitant hand to touch. He remembers Muirġa laughing, pulling the shirt the rest of the way off and urging Esca to stand with him so Muirġa can remove Esca’s shirt, tracing Esca’s breastbone with a finger while Esca sucks in his breath. But Esca doesn’t remember how Muirġa’s loincloth or leggings came off, or his own trousers, or the rest. But then they are standing by the hearth, bare skin glinting in firelight, Esca clad in nothing but shadows, Muirġa wearing only the strand of bones around his neck.

“What are these bones?” Esca asks, feeling like a child, tracing the length of one bone. “I have long been wondering. Do you wear them always?”

“I do not know your lands well,” Muirġa says. “For many years in our lands there were such bold wolves that _eannrónta_ were in danger of being stolen by them. The elders gave us these stories. _Fennidi_ had to accompany any who left our dún. When I came of age, I struck out to make a peace with these wolves. Each of these comes from a male wolf; this is the bone they use to mate. This is my talisman, my power; and we are troubled no longer by wolves.”

“You are right,” Esca says in wonderment. “Eagles, hares, beavers, badgers… even, once, we heard a wild cat in the mountains. But we encountered not even a single wolf for many a day.” He is not sure if it is the honey that is lending clarity to his every thought or if it is something else. “This is why they call you Faolta. I have heard this among the _fennidi_ , Muirġa Faolta. I did not know what it meant.”

“ _Faolta Marfóra_ [[25]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note25)," Muirġa says, and Esca can feel the heat of pride coming from him.

“Your people are well served–”

“ _Our_ people,” Muirġa says. “Ours, now, Esca.” His eyes gleam in the firelight. “Come, now, these summer nights are short. We must make the most of them. Are you well?”

“I am better than well,” Esca says, pulling Muirġa in close. He knows what to expect; he knows, in fact, all too well what to expect. But thus far Muirġa has been gentle; more than that, Muirġa has showered him with honour and even affection. Esca has fear; a man of sense will always have fear, his uncle would often say. Going forward despite fear: that is what makes bravery; that is called courage.

“You are,” Muirġa breathes, close to his ear. “And so is your arrow, as straight and strong as I knew it would be, my archer.” Then Muirġa’s hands are down between Esca’s legs, cupping and fondling. Esca reaches for Muirġa in turn, but he is already hard there, like the spear he names himself, and wet at the end of him. He pushes into Muirġa’s fingers, feeling himself growing harder with every pulse of his heart. “Yes,” Muirġa whispers, pulling Esca in closer with one hand and twining the other around both of them together, pulling and stroking until Esca can no longer prevent a whimper, a moan.

“ _Eascann mór_ ," Muirġa says, close against Esca’s ear, and Esca laughs, helpless and breathless.

“ _Faol mór_ ,” he says in return, joining his hand with Muirġa’s, feeling Muirġa slide against him in the circle of their fingers.[[26]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note26)

“Here,” Muirġa says, releasing them. “Stand here–” They are by the stone couch again, and Muirġa puts one foot up, his so-called spear jutting in front of him, long and hard, matching Esca’s own, their ends almost touching. “Steady…” He gestures, stroking himself, and Esca does the same, stopping when Muirġa does. Muirġa strokes back his hood, leaving the head shiny and wet and bare, and so Esca does the same. “Slowly,” Muirġa breathes, and leans in enough so each head is touching, just barely, as if they are kissing. “Now,” Muirġa says, holding steady Esca’s length in one hand and stroking his hood over both of them, so it covers both heads. It is wet and tight and Esca nearly stumbles, only saving himself with both hands on Muirġa’s shoulders.

“I won’t – I can’t last,” he manages to gasp, as Muirġa strokes slower and slower, his grip tighter and tighter.

“You can, _eascann mór_ ,” Muirġa says, and Esca swallows and drops his forehead to Muirġa’s chest, closing his eyes so he can’t see Muirġa’s hand gliding between them. But that makes it worse: the room swirls all around him and every sensation seems to close in on that spot between them, where their manhoods meet under Muirġa’s hood. He is certain he is losing the battle; he feels his stones lifting, the seed in them surging, his hips stuttering forward. Muirġa pulls back, letting go, and Esca looks up, dazed and thirsty for more. He asks for more, but his tongue stumbles, and Muirġa pulls him close in to kiss him again.

Then there is a hand between them – Muirġa’s – and a thumb, rubbing across the wet at the end of his length. It is the wet from both of them, where they kissed there, and again Esca feels a surge from the base of his spine welling deep within him. Muirġa lifts his thumb to Esca’s mouth, wetting Esca’s lower lip with the liquid. Esca follows the tracing with his tongue; the liquid is salt and bitter, like the sea. Muirġa wets his thumb, again from Esca, and this time rubs it across his own mouth. “This is where it begins,” he whispers, and Esca nods slowly, unable to take his eyes from Muirġa’s mouth even while his hand finds Muirġa’s spear and he wets his own thumb there. He lifts his thumb to Muirġa’s mouth and Muirġa draws in a breath and Esca’s thumb all at once. His tongue is warm and soft, laving Esca’s thumb up and around, twisting around this way and that. Esca hears himself moan; he can’t stop it. His fingers rest on Muirġa’s face while Muirġa plunders his thumb; he can feel the movements of Muirġa’s jaw and mouth under the palm of his hand.

“ _Now_ ,” he whispers, only aware that he wants.

Muirġa covers Esca’s hand with his own, entwining their fingers and kissing the palm of Esca’s hand. “Almost,” he whispers in return. Esca tries to gather his thoughts; he is next, if he imitates Muirġa, so he wets his thumb again and this time moistens his own lips. But before he can lick it off, Muirġa’s mouth covers his, and Muirġa’s tongue is there, licking across Esca’s lips, and Esca moans again, into Muirġa’s mouth this time. “This pleases you,” Muirġa says, pulling back, one hand on either side of Esca’s face, his eyes searching.

“I thirst for you,” Esca says, this time covering Muirġa’s hands with his own. “Let me drink you.”

“ _A Esca_ ,” Muirġa says huskily. “Do you–”

But Esca gives him no more time; he sinks to his knees, longing for more than just the taste he’d had from Muirġa’s thumb. “I do,” he answers, and then he licks Muirġa’s spear from the beginning to the end and swallows him whole. This is unlike anything he’s done before: yet this is all that he wants, Muirġa solid in his mouth, heavy against his tongue, Muirġa’s thighs quivering beneath his hands. He moves one hand to circle Muirġa’s spear at the base, to press against the dark, bristling hair there, to feel Muirġa tremble as his fingers close there at the root of him. He presses hard with his thumb and it’s Muirġa’s turn to moan. Esca hums his delight, deep in his throat, and he feels Muirġa’s hands tighten in his hair.

“Esca – Esca!”

Esca pulls back, wrapping his hand around Muirġa’s length as he does so, then squeezes his fingers tight so that more moisture swells up to coat the tip. He works the hood back and forth, spreading the wet, then leans in to lick it off. “The salt of the sea,” he whispers, and his breath across Muirġa’s spear makes Muirġa shudder under his hand.

“Your – mouth,” he says hoarsely, and Esca strokes his length again, then leans in to wrap his tongue around the head, his fingers finding the base and the soft hair beneath, cupping, fondling, his fingertips touching Muirġa’s stones and tracing around and under them, where the hair is softer and thicker. His touch makes Muirġa gasp, surging through his fingers and towards his mouth. “I will – I would spill my seed, here, in your throat,” Muirġa says, gripping Esca’s chin with one hand, his other still wound tight in the hair on Esca’s head. “Will you take this from me?”

Esca opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing and looks up the length of Muirġa’s body’s to his face, his eyes shadowed, his chin rigid, his neck taut.

“Will – will you give this to me?” he says, his voice cracking at the start with the effort he has to make to force the words out of his throat.

“I – am,” Muirġa says, forcing his words out just as Esca had, and he pushes forward again, pulling Esca to him at the same moment. Esca feels the length in his fingers swell and grow still harder. He leans forward hastily, just in time to catch the first pulses of Muirġa’s seed on his lips, on his tongue. He swallows, eager beyond thought, and draws the head between his lips, letting Muirġa’s seed fills his mouth, his throat, his stomach. Muirġa spends over and over, his body as taut as a strung bow, his hands frozen in Esca’s hair, a low keening sound in the back of his throat that leaves the hair prickling on the back of Esca’s neck.

Then it is over: even as Esca releases him to lick his lips, Muirġa is tumbling, loose limbed, onto the stone couch, panting. He flings one arm across his eyes and reaches blindly for Esca with his free hand, pulling Esca down with him. Esca goes willingly, pressing up against Muirġa, straddling both of Muirġa’s legs with one of his so he can press his own arrow, still distended, up against the hollow of Muirġa’s hip. Muirġa makes an agreeable sound in the back of his throat and pulls Esca’s head towards him, pressing his lips briefly to the corner of Esca’s mouth. Esca makes the same sort of sound back at him, running his hand over Muirġa’s chest and down his stomach, the skin soft and warm and sweaty.

“ _Tá mé anois faol beag_ [[27]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note27)," Muirġa says, and chuckles. But Esca does not feel like laughing, now; even as the herbed honey is wearing off, his arrow is taking over his brain and all he can think of is what is between his legs, what is between Muirġa’s legs. Muirġa’s spear is soft now; Esca can cup all of it, the bristled hair, the spent spear and the soft stones beneath, in one hand. Muirġa shifts and pushes up into Esca’s hand with a grunt.

“Play as you will,” he says, his voice husky, his lips warm against Esca’s temple. “My spear does not take long to sharpen, and I crave the feel of your hands on me, shield-brother.”

“I am,” Esca says, the words a rumbled promise deep in his throat. “I will.” Muirġa’s chest is smooth, almost as smooth as Esca’s, but his nipples are copper brown, where Esca’s are paled bronze. Esca runs one hand back up Muirġa’s stomach to his chest while he dips his head to lick the sprinkling of hair that covers Muirġa’s breastbone, then one nipple, feeling it harden beneath the flat of his tongue. He tastes not only the salt of Muirġa’s sweat but a more complex, briny taste; he realizes all at once that he is tasting the sea on Muirġa’s skin; and he wonders if Muirġa can taste the same on his. Muirġa makes a sound deep in his throat, arching under Esca and pulling him closer still. Esca makes the same sound back, echoing Muirġa, pushing the small pebble down with his tongue, then closing his lips around it and suckling in time with his small thrusts into the soft hollow at Muirġa’s hip. Muirġa pushes up against Esca’s thigh in turn and Esca moves across Muirġa’s chest to wet his other nipple, to lick it, feel it also pebble beneath his tongue even while he splays a hand, flat, across the first one just to feel it hard under his palm.

His arrow is slicking a wet trail along Muirġa’s hip and Esca shifts enough to partly cover Muirġa, to feel Muirġa moving under him. This is a heady feeling, new to Esca, unlike anything in his experience: Muirġa is sinew and muscle and bone alongside him, strong underneath his pale skin, his belly flat and hard and the spear between his legs rising again to press against Esca’s belly. Muirġa runs his hands down the length of Esca’s back, and Esca shifts up again when he feels Muirġa move one hand between them, finding the wet hollow and covering Esca’s arrow. It’s slicker than before; Esca can feel himself hardening still more, pushing into Muirġa’s hand. Then Muirġa draws his hand away, away and up, and Esca lifts his head to see Muirġa licking his own fingers.

“We call this the rain that comes before the snow,” Muirġa says, his voice low, laughter lurking behind it, and Esca surges upward to capture Muirġa’s fingers, his lips, to taste all of it. Muirġa laughs out loud, feeding the two fingers to Esca, then pulling him close in so they can share the taste of Esca’s rain on their lips, on their tongues. Muirġa shifts again beneath him, kneeing Esca’s thighs apart, his spear pressing up against the soft skin behind Esca’s stones. Esca spreads his legs wider, trying to urge Muirġa into position with his knees as he would a horse, his head spinning; this is not a way he’s ever done this, or seen it done, but it seems within the bounds of possibility.

“Slowly,” Muirġa says. “Slowly, slowly, _a ṡearc_." [[28]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note28) We use the oil of the sea-bear to ease this passage.” Esca feels the heat rising to his face as he sits back on his haunches, his head spinning, whether from the honey or from the unexpected endearment, falling so naturally from Muirġa’s lips, he can’t say. Muirġa sits up as well, a sudden frown marring his forehead.

“I didn’t mean–” Esca begins, only to be silenced by Muirġa’s lips on his, a murmur of reassurance.

“Come,” Muirġa says after another kiss, shifting them both and then moving them from the couch, so Esca finds himself standing, toe to toe, by the hearth with him, being offered the mead. Esca drinks, great long swallows, as Muirġa watches him, but he shakes his head when Esca holds the pot out to him. Instead he kneels in the pile of his clothing, searching for something, as Esca stands, somewhat at a loss, trying to move his mind elsewhere.

Then Muirġa sits back on his heels with a sigh, and Esca feels his face burn. Without looking at him, Muirġa says something softly, then stops. Esca puts a tentative hand on his shoulder; somewhat to his surprise, Muirġa turns his head quickly to press his lips against Esca’s fingers, then follows with a hand on Esca’s wrist, pulling Esca down to his knees among the clothing and skins. But still he does not look at Esca, but down at the ground instead.

“I did not wish… I do not wish you to…” He stops again, obviously searching for words. The heat ebbs from Esca’s face, his heart thudding heavy in his chest. Again he has forgotten who he is and why he is here; and he has almost no experience with those men who would treat him as equals; what little he has had stems, ironically, from his time as Marcus’ body slave. He was aware of much that went on among the men of the Brigantes, but it is equally clear, now, that there is much he was not aware of. It may be that he can never join his people again; it may be that he will always be trapped between worlds, better off as a Roman slave to a master like Marcus than as a free man.

Not that he has a choice, and that is what he must remember, now and always. He cannot leave Marcus or his quest; he will not betray the honour of Cunoval. While Marcus convalesced, his uncle read to them of women who sang a song so beautiful that the men who sailed past their island were enchanted by it and could not pass without trying to land, though it meant their deaths. His heart hears that song from Muirġa, from the Seal People, but his boat will wreck and founder in these dangerous waters. This is what was nibbling away at the back of his mind, that he could not remember and yet must not forget, no matter the herbed honey or the intoxicating feel of Muirġa’s lips, warm on his skin.

“What is this?” he says to Muirġa, gripping Muirġa’s shoulder with one hand and leaning in to unclasp Muirġa’s fingers from around a small pot with the other hand. They must see this through, else Muirġa could not hold up his head. And Esca must see the rest through on his own; there is no help to be had from Marcus, or Muirġa, or anyone at all.

The ointment in the small pot is thick, but when Esca runs a curious finger through it, the warmth from his finger begins to melt it. “I see,” he says. “This is clever.” He lifts his finger to his mouth; neither the smell nor the taste is unpleasant. Nor is it anything like the oil the first man who bought him used, viscous and heavily perfumed.

Muirġa is watching him, his eyes glinting in the torchlight, and clears his throat. “It is from the sea-bear[[29]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note29), mixed with wax from the bees. Its uses are many.” But he makes no motion towards Esca, or the small pot, so Esca takes matters into his own hands. Muirġa’s spear, like Esca’s, has gone soft again. He wants to reach out to Muirġa, but in this mood he does not quite dare. So he does the next best thing he can think of: he warms some of the ointment on his fingers and reaches for himself.

It takes only a few strokes before he is hard; unlike Muirġa, he has not spent already, and if he is truthful with himself, there is no physical part of this night that seems a hardship. Muirġa plainly desires – and has desired – him, and Esca feels, and has felt, the same. Had he known Muirġa would incur a life-debt through this, he would have tried to find another way, and just now he has not thought through a way he can still keep his promises to both Marcus and Muirġa; but in the heat of this moment, there is little else he can think of save the two of them, joined together.

Muirġa is watching, his eyes locked on Esca’s hand, his breathing arrested. Esca strokes himself more slowly, pulling the hood back, then pushing it forward again. In the silence he can hear the wet sounds it makes, and then the sound Muirġa makes, an indrawn breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Esca sees Muirġa’s spear twitch. It makes his mouth water. He looks at Muirġa, and he knows the need is written across his face because Muirġa’s face changes as their eyes meet, his lips parting, his eyes softer than a moment ago.

“Let me,” Esca says, because he is not asking. He sees Muirġa swallow as he holds Esca’s gaze with his own a moment longer, then nods. Esca wastes no time sliding the rest of the way to the ground, wriggling between Muirġa’s knees like the eel Muirġa names him. His hand is still slick with the ointment and he rubs the palm of his hand along the shaft, using his thumb to guide the head into his mouth. He can feel Muirġa’s heart pulsing against his hand, even on his tongue, his spear sharpening with every heartbeat, and he closes his eyes so he can revel in all of it.

Thus the hand in his hair surprises him; Muirġa is looking down at him, when he opens his eyes, and there is a thumb stroking his forehead. He grins around the flesh in his mouth, then sucks harder, tightening his grip at the same time. Above him Muirġa groans, and his hand tightens in Esca’s hair. Slowly, as if he is holding back, he starts to move, pushing his spear through Esca’s fist and into his mouth. Esca closes his eyes again and reaches down to take himself in hand again, stroking in time with Muirġa’s thrusts. He feels the tension coiling in his own belly, and without thinking he presses his other hand flat against Muirġa’s belly, crushing the hair under his palm, letting Muirġa’s spear ride all the way into his throat with each thrust. He draws his own knees up, lifting his hips off the ground, stroking himself faster, harder, a wave cresting–

Muirġa’s hand is on his jaw, his thumb pressing at the corner of Esca’s mouth; he is saying something but Esca has no idea what. He coughs, letting Muirġa’s spear slide out of his mouth while he tries to get his breath, swallowing hard. Above him, Esca’s name is echoing off the stones that make up the roof of the _borra_ , between broken gasps. “Please,” Esca whispers, even as Muirġa is wrestling him to his knees.

“I will spend again, in your mouth,” Muirġa whispers back. “We must–"

“Already?” Esca says, forgetting the weight between his legs in honest amazement, and Muirġa laughs, sounding shaken but genuinely amused.

“We are well matched, my archer,” Muirġa says, gaining his feet and reaching down to pull Esca up with him.

“I wish–” Esca begins, then stops abruptly. These are words that must not be spoken out loud, thoughts that must not be given form: the wish that this could be something everyday, something normal, that Muirġa could spend in Esca’s mouth as many times as he wished, that Esca could see how many times Muirġa would spend in one night beyond these… rituals, these expectations.

“You wish?” Muirġa prompts, pressing his lips against the base of Esca’s throat, then licking Esca’s jaw.

“I wish us… to be joined,” Esca says, swallowing a moan as Muirġa’s lips find his ear. He retaliates by stroking Muirġa’s spear, slicking his hand through the wet. This reminds him of the ointment and he casts about, nudging through the clothing on the floor with his foot until he strikes something small and hard. On his way back up, he licks the end of Muirġa’s spear before pulling Muirġa against him, finding his lips and using Muirġa’s mouth the way Muirġa has taught him while he rubs the ointment all over and around Muirġa’s spear. Muirġa’s hands are all over Esca’s body, but Esca doesn’t allow himself the distraction, concentrating solely on Muirġa’s mouth and his spear, getting it as slick as he can.

"Now,” Muirġa says into his mouth. “We must – I must–"

“I know,” Esca says. He takes two steps back from Muirġa and feels the stone couch again at the back of his knees. His heart has found its way into his throat; but the ointment is slippery and Muirġa’s spear is slick. So he turns his back on Muirġa, letting himself drop to his hands and knees on the skins piled on the couch.

There is silence behind him, a looming stillness in the suddenly heavy air. He looks over his shoulder to see Muirġa, standing like a stone, his face shadowed.

“Muirġa?” Esca says.

“You are a – a son of the Brigantes,” Muirġa says, sounding as if he is struggling to form words, his voice streaked with anger. “You are Esca mac – mac Cunoval. Your father… your father commanded five hundred spears.”

“I am,” Esca whispers, his throat so constricted so that he can hardly say the words without strangling. The mood has changed so quickly, like lightning changes the sky, that he is beginning to panic, his heart racing, his breath fugitive.

“Yet you present yourself as a Roman.” Muirġa nearly spits the word; he always does. “We have – we know, we have seen and heard what the Romans do to their prisoners, to their slaves. I have seen it. We have seen and heard what they do to our people, even as they pass by. They pick out a woman, as they would a cow. _You_ have seen this, I know. You must have. They bend her over, they push up her skirt, and they take her like a dog takes a bitch. Except that a dog takes more time and more care than any Roman.”

Every word he speaks cuts Esca like a knife; bewildered and confused, he can only drop his head to his heaving chest, swallowing the sudden bile in his throat, blinking away the pin pricks at the backs of his eyes. “I… I… know,” he manages to say. _I have seen this_ , he wants to say. _I have known this; I have done this_. “I spent… seven years… with them,” he gasps to the skins underneath his knees, his elbows. The next thing he knows are the skins, warm and soft beneath his shoulder and hip, clinging along the curve of his body as he buries his head in his arms and struggles for breath, for composure… for respite. But there is none, not even here, and there will never be.

“Seven years?” Muirġa says after a long moment, and he sounds closer.

Esca nods, then shakes his head. “Yes,” he whispers into the dark, close air trapped between his elbows.

Suddenly there is a warmth all along the curve of his spine; Muirġa has joined him on the couch, a hand ghosting over Esca’s shoulder. It is followed by Muirġa’s lips there, and then he feels Muirġa’s head next to his own, nudging Esca’s arms away from his head with his chin to find Esca’s ear with his lips.

“Seven?” he whispers. “This summer marks the seventh for my _eannroin_. I thought… I thought you were older. I am a fool; I knew you weren’t. You told me of this.”

Esca can only nod; his stomach is roiling, and he fears to open his mouth lest his breath escape again.

“Were you untouched when they took you?” Muirġa says, and then answers himself: “Yes. You were. You know nothing of this, nothing of us. You know of shield-brothers, but you were never one at all. My apologies, my shield-brother.”

“It is – it is not – you need not,” Esca says, carefully, his tongue unwieldy. “You speak truth.”

“I ask your forgiveness. Your actions stem from ignorance, not intent, and I am not patient. Let me tell you,” Muirġa says, wrapping his arms around Esca, pulling him back against his chest. “Let me tell you of our people, Esca. We are the People of the Sea, the Seal People. We couple as the seals do, as our ancestors have done for years without number, before the Romans ever darkened our land. We meet face to face, we mate face to face. We are people, not animals; this is how you know us, and this is how you know them.” He pulls Esca around, his fingers on Esca’s chin, his eyes searching Esca’s face. “Let me show you, _a ṡearc_. If you will.”

“I know… I know we must,” Esca says, his voice a thin thread and the sound of his heart still pounding loud in his ears, almost drowning out his words. “The ritual.”

“The sky can fall, the sea can part and swallow the ritual whole!” Muirġa says. “It is we who matter here. Our blood is mingled. I have spent in your body. The gods cannot demur. Some may hunger still, but our honour is satisfied.”

Esca should be shocked; he senses Muirġa has managed to shock himself. But Esca stopped believing in any gods when his father cut his mother’s throat. The purpose they serve, he has come to believe, is to give men excuses to justify their actions, divine permission to follow a course of action they have already decided upon. If it was the will of the gods that brought Rome to his land, then it was also the will of the gods that the VIIII Legion march north to their slaughter. Yet the men who follow them accept only one as just and not the other, no matter which side they are on.

“Let me show you,” Muirġa says again, his voice low. “Man to man, brother to brother, seal to seal.” He waits a long moment, in the silence, while Esca struggles with his breath, his thoughts, with his words – with his desires, most of all.

He can shake his head; he can say no. Muirġa will pull him close and they will sleep. He can say yes, and they will couple, and he will pull Muirġa close, and they can sleep.

It takes every pitiful scrap of his courage to look himself in the face and acknowledge that he wants to say no only for the peace it will bring him. But that peace is a temporary refuge; he knows that. It will be gone as the sun burns off the fog in the morning, gone like the herbed honey on his tongue, leaving nothing but shame and emptiness behind.

He is a son of Cunoval. “Show me,” he says, steady and unsmiling, looking up into Muirġa’s eyes.

Muirġa stares back at him for a long moment but Esca’s gaze does not waver. “You bring great honour to my house,” he says at last, with great dignity and formality.

“Your house has great honour already,” Esca responds, almost by rote, although it has been long since he has heard these words exchanged, and never from him.

The effect is spoilt only a moment later when Muirġa descends on him, ravenous as the wolves whose bones he wears, his passion carrying them both. Esca was unprepared for the mouth and the hands; Muirġa has been restraining himself, that much is now clear. He was not prepared for the slick fingers pressing up inside him. He was not prepared for the sparks of fire behind his eyes when Muirġa moved those fingers, nor for Muirġa’s whispered endearments as he fitted his spear there instead. Face to face indeed, with his arrow trapped between their bellies and Muirġa surging into him, long deep strokes, drawing both those sparks behind his eyes and cries from his mouth he does not recognize as his own.

“It is the mystery of the sea-brothers,” Muirġa pants in his ear. “A woman has it outside; ours is inside, hidden, and only we know of it.” He drops his forehead to Esca’s collarbone, driving harder and faster. Esca closes his eyes; the sparks are swirling higher and higher, coalescing into bursts of light. He is boneless, weightless all at once, floating high and free as Muirġa lifts himself, coming to his knees so he can grasp Esca at the hips to drive fully into him. A cry is wrung from Esca and then he feels Muirġa’s hand on his arrow and warm wetness on his chin, his throat, his chest, great gouts of seed spurting high between them. It seems forever; it seems only moments. He still feels the clench at his groin, the spasms of his arrow, when Muirġa stiffens and cries out, both hands on Esca’s hips again, holding him there, his spear pulsing steadily, emptying his seed deep into Esca.

Esca closes his eyes again, limp as a rag, a smile coming unbidden to his lips. He feels Muirġa settle back on his heels, still joined to him, minute thrusts inside him that his own arrow tries feebly to emulate. He opens his eyes when Muirġa stills to see Muirġa looking down at him in some wonder. He lifts his head to look, himself, and realises his neck and chest are striped with white. “We will call you Taesca," [[30]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note30) is all Muirġa says before he lowers his head, his tongue emerging. Esca snorts, then begins to laugh, as the words make their way through his dulled senses. Muirġa pauses his lapping and snorts too, then begins to laugh along with Esca, and then they are wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing a kiss that is flavoured with Esca’s seed as Muirġa’s spear slips from Esca’s body, a warm flow of liquid following.

Muirġa sighs then, his body relaxing against Esca’s, and he shifts enough so that Esca can also shift his legs to rest comfortably. Esca closes his eyes, relishing the warmth of Muirġa above him, the feel of the wetness between his thighs. Muirġa says something, throaty and deep; the words make no sense but the meaning is clear. Esca rubs his thumb across Muirġa’s shoulder, where his hand rests. He feels Muirġa’s hand on his chest, rubbing the remnants of his release into his skin. He closes his eyes to enjoy the feel of Muirġa’s fingers stroking across his chest, up his neck and across his shoulder, down his arm. He senses rather than feels Muirġa leaning over him, and opens his eyes to see Muirġa looking intently at the markings on his arm.

“We do not have this,” he says after a moment. “I have seen something like it among the Veniconii, and the Selgovæ. But the Brigantes, they mark the arms here. And sometimes here, is it true?” He puts a hand on Esca’s shoulder, drawing it down to stop just above Esca’s right nipple. “I have seen it.”

“These are the marks of the Brigantes,” Esca says. “The arms are marked. There are others; my mother had her own also. These say I am a son of the Brigantes of the blue war shields.” He puts out two fingers to trace the top and bottom bands, the linked shields. “This middle one marks me out as one of the _teglach_ of five hundred spears. There were more I would have gotten.” He swallows hard, suddenly, remembering the prick of the needle and the watchful eye of his mother, overlooking her brother’s work. It had been the first step in his initiation to manhood.

“You are fortunate the Romans did not recognize Cunoval’s symbols,” is all Muirġa says, but his thumb is warm, rubbing Esca’s arm where the ink marks him. “Would you mark your son so? Where had you this pigment? I have only seen black, among the _finte_ in the lowlands.”

Esca yawns suddenly, his jaw cracking. “My son. I… I have not thought of it.” He blinks, his thoughts suddenly scattered. His markings mean much to him. But he has not thought at all on how much they would mean to his son, who will never see them among his _teglach._ Among his _fine._

Nor can he be there for that son.

He collects his thoughts; Muirġa is watching him, his thumb still rubbing Esca’s arm, where the markings are. His weight is a warmth and a comfort.

“I think these now mean something only to me,” he says, keeping his voice steady. Muirġa’s lips part, as if he is about to speak, but Esca pretends not to see. “As for the pigment, we journeyed there from time to time, across the breadth of our land, from one sea to the other, to the place where the waves roar. Tonn ar Tráigh, they call it.[[31]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note31) There copper could be found; in that same place, they would also find blue stones, and sometimes green.[[32]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#note32) We would trade for these: cows, mostly, and sometimes cloth and gold. My uncle, Enabarr, the brother of my mother, would grind the stones into the powder for our markings. It was he who marked us, in our _teglach_. My mother–” he swallows a sudden lump in his throat, “–my mother would watch him.”

His uncle would tell her to cease her scolding, although his mother never scolded a day in her life. She would in turn tell him to leave the marking to those with a steady hand, although none had a steadier hand than her brother. Their words were a sufficient distraction, the first time; by the time came for the third band, Esca needed no distraction, but still they exchanged their words, and the affection underneath the words stays with Esca to this day, wrapped around his heart like soft wool.

“What of the other markings?” Muirġa asks after a few moments. “Do you remember them?”

“I do,” Esca says. “My mother had one that swirled, up and down, like the top and bottom of a wave. The band was blue, but each peak was green. When the sun shone on it, it seemed to move.”

“It sounds a wonderful thing,” Muirġa says.

Esca nods, and then yawns again, as suddenly as before. His eyelids are heavy all at once, and when he closes his eyes, he can trace the pattern of his mother’s waves. “I think I will sleep, _a Ṁuirġa_ ,” he says. “Have we time?”

“Time enough,” Muirġa whispers, his mouth ghosting across Esca’s for a heartbeat.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

21. _A ṁac_ or _a mhac_ means 'my son' in an affectionate, paternal sense; it is also, not coincidentally, the source of the American slang "Mack," as in, "hey, Mack!".  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_21) to the story.

22. Or 'Ivar'; this is an attested Pictish name.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_22) to the story.

23. Much like ergot, there is a fungus that grows on heather that has hallucinogenic properties.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_23) to the story.

24. _Eascann beag_ means 'little eel' (where _eascann_ means 'eel' - you can see the same root word as Esca's name).  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_24) to the story.

25. _Faolta Marfóra_ means 'slayer of wolves'. It did not make sense, if the Painted People regard the seals as their kin, and only hunt the grey seals, that they would hunt them in such quantity that Muirga would have an entire necklace of bacula. Notably, while Esca and Marcus are journeying north, we don't hear wolves howling. Since wolves and seals have remarkably similar bacular structures, including size, I chose to make Muirga's necklace from the baculum of wolves rather than seals. Footnote to the footnote: a baculum is a penis bone, and most placental mammals possess them, including seals. Primates and ungulates are the odd exceptions. The purpose of the baculum is imperfectly understood, aside from the obvious: they take up space that does not have to be filled with blood to add rigidity.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_25) to the story.

26. The word _mór_ means 'big' or 'large,' and the word _faol_ is a singular, somewhat archaic, word for 'wolf'. Yes, everyone makes bad puns, including Seal People and Brigantes.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_26) to the story.

27. 'Now I am a small wolf.'  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_27) to the story.

28. _A searc_ is a term of romantic endearment; it means 'my heart'. Other words can be added to make it more passionate, for instance, _a rúnsearc_ and _a chéadsearc_ , my secret love/my beloved and my 'first' (primary) love, respectively. When you see the term _mo chroí_ purportedly meaning 'my love' or 'my heart' (the literal translation), that is correct literally but not in a spoken sense. When speaking directly to someone, the Irish language uses the modifier 'a' or 'an' in front of their name or title or endearment. It is only when they are speaking of something that belongs to them that they use the modifier 'mo'. So for example, if you were discussing your loved one with someone else - 'I left my love in Dublin' - you would say, I left _mo chroí_ in Dublin. If you were to say 'my love, please pass the butter,' you would say, _a chroí_ , pass the butter, please. The same holds true whenever they are directly addressing someone: an 'a' or 'an' is put in front of the name / term when they are talking directly to someone as a sort of notation to indicate, hello, I'm talking to you directly. For more, see Bitesize Irish: <https://www.bitesize.irish/blog/irish-endearments/>.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_28) to the story.

29. In common with many hunter-gatherer cultures, the Seal People draw sharp distinctions between species. The seal they regard as their kin is _Phoca vitulina_ , the common or harbour seal. These seals have faces with upturned noses, rather like cats or anime characters, and are relatively rare compared to grey seals in northern Scotland, especially in the Moray Firth. What the Seal People call a 'sea-bear' is not a polar bear but rather the grey seal, _Halichoerus grypus_ , which is much more common in the waters where the Tæsgali would be hunting and fishing. This seal has a muzzle like a bear or a dog, straight and long; nowadays it is often described as 'Roman', but of course the inhabitants of pre-Roman Scotland would not have made that comparison.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_29) to the story.

30. In Old Irish, _taesc_ means a gush or a downpour. Once again, it is from the same root as 'Esca'.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_30) to the story.

31. Tonderghie SW Scotland; _treathan_ , m. (gs. & npl. -ain, gpl. ~). Lit: 1. (a) Sea, ocean. _Tonn treathain_ , ocean wave. _Gach talamh agus gach_ ~, every land and sea. (b) Wide expanse. ~ uaine, a sea of green. 2. Tumult, turmoil (of sea, storm); thunder, uproar. ~ tonn ar tráigh, the waves roaring on the beach. ~ eachraí, thundering of horses’ hooves.  
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32. See Note 10 on woad in the [Story Notes (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936999/chapters/42356957)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936999/chapters/42356957).  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503412#orig_31) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Your hands on my cheeks_  
>  _Your shoulder in my mouth_  
>   
>  ~ _Anna Sun_ , Walk The Moon
> 
>  
> 
>  


	4. I can taste the ocean on your skin

When next Esca wakes, he is nestled under some skins; Muirġa is crouched by the fire and the smell of warm mead fills the air. Esca has no notion of the hour, only that his body is replete, awash with warmth and pleasure – but his bladder is full. He slides to the edge of the couch, pushing the skins in a heap at the foot of it. “That is pleasant,” he says, stretching and then crossing to Muirġa, to enfold him in his arms and press their cheeks together for a brief moment.

“Mulled mead,” Muirġa says. “It puts the heart in a warrior, early in the morning. I set a torch below for the necessary.”

“A thousand thanks,” Esca says, heartfelt, and squeezes Muirġa once more before releasing him to stand. Muirġa stops him, a hand on his wrist, pulling Esca down to exchange a brief kiss on the lips.

“The pleasure is mine,” he murmurs against Esca’s mouth and Esca feels his arrow begin to stir.

“Not all,” he murmurs back, and is gratified by Muirġa’s laughter, a short sharp bark.

When he returns, shaking the water out of his hair – Muirġa had not only lighted a torch but had refilled the pot used to rinse the drain, and Esca took the opportunity to dunk his head and rinse himself, cleaning some of the stickiness that remained between his thighs – Muirġa is sitting cross-legged by the fire, taking a tentative sip from the pot of mead.

The Brigantes use metal vessels for cooking, but Esca has seen little metal this far north, only a few cooking pots. His father’s uncle, one of the oldest men who lived, known to all as Brigacos, had taught any who were interested to make arrow points from flint, and Esca had been one of those; thus he had not been surprised, here, to see the Seal People working their own flint spearheads and axe blades. Brigacos had been one who allowed that metal spear points and arrowheads had their place, but flint was always available, and when they went every year to the great timber circle in the sea for the summer celebrations [[33]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503436#note33), he would always make the young bring back as many stones as they could carry. Esca feels a smile cross his face at the distant memory even as that memory causes a twinge in his shoulders. Most of the Seal People’s vessels are either skin or pottery. He has not paid attention until now to wonder how the mead could be heated in such; but as he watches, sitting himself beside Muirġa and combing through his damp hair with his fingers, Muirġa fishes some stones out of the shallow pot, using a broad, flat stick, and replaces them with several others that were lying in the embers.

“Fire stones,” Muirġa says, in response to Esca’s unspoken question. “When fire falls from the sky, it sometimes leaves these stones [[34]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503436#note34). If you can find them, they heat quickly and never break open as normal stones will. The _teglach_ has many, as does the _fine_. Sometimes we trade them with those from across the sea, to the north.” He takes another sip and sucks in his breath quickly. “Better.” He hands the pot to Esca, who welcomes the warmth on his hands and takes a sip of the mead. It is hot, creating a warmth in his stomach, and sweeter than their usual mead, spiced, not like Roman honey cakes, but fragrant and fresh.

“There is herbed honey in there,” Muirġa says. “This also helps to put the heart in a man, to go out into the cold dark of a morning.”

“I am warned,” Esca says, and takes another long draught before handing it back to Muirġa. “I have not had it before, or the spices. I like it.”

“We trade for spices sometimes, with the people from the north,” Muirġa says. “This is spiced with a tiny seed; several are enough for an entire pot, and can be used again.” He drinks, then, himself, his throat muscles working as he swallows, and Esca stares at him, lost in wonder. He realises, when he blinks his eyes and there are momentarily two Muirġas, that the herbed honey is having its effect again. But this time he knows what to expect, relishing the pleasure that dances through his mind like the flames in the fire.

They sit before the fire in a companionable silence; Muirġa breaks it only once, to ask if Esca will desire more mead. Esca declines; he is warm throughout, and his skin feels as if it is sparking. Muirġa banks the fire, carefully replacing the fire stones at the edge of the hearth, and offers his hand to pull Esca to his feet.

“Now what?” Esca says, leaning in to taste Muirġa’s lips, sweet with honeyed mead.

“We have faced the fire, _a ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa says, answering Esca’s touch with his own, both arms around Esca’s neck. “Now we face the sky and the sea.”

“Complicated,” Esca says, dreams of the future scattering the clouds in his head.

“No,” Muirġa says. “But cold, yes. We will bring skins.”

“And the ointment,” Esca says, leaning in close to bury his nose in Muirġa’s neck, breathing in deeply so the scent of him joins the dreams and clouds. He feels Muirġa’s spear rising, pressing against Esca’s, and he angles his hips to bring them closer together.

“I will not forget,” Muirġa says, his voice low.

“I will never forget this at all,” Esca says in return, tasting Muirġa’s neck, then his chest, the flat planes of his stomach above his belly, the indentation above the hair that leads a faint trail down, down to the thick nest of hair where his spear stands straight now, hard again and half-hooded. He hears the inrush of Muirġa’s breath above him as he dips his head in to taste Muirġa again, to bring him to full hardness, to coax the wet from the end of him so he can lave it away again with his tongue.

“Your mouth… pleases me,” Muirġa says above him, and the hand in Esca’s hair tightens. “Does it…” Esca sucks harder and Muirġa breaks off with a grunt, one hand on his spear now and guiding it into Esca’s mouth. “Do you – Esca!"

For Esca has released Muirġa’s spear to lick the soft skin beneath it, to pull Muirġa’s stones into his mouth, first one, then the other, then opening wider to fit both. Muirġa makes a sound above him that sounds like a newborn pup mewling – Esca would smile if he could – and the stiff flesh against his cheek throbs suddenly.

“Please!” Muirġa says, biting the word off. Esca pulls off reluctantly, rubbing Muirġa’s spear along his cheek and sucking on the head of it, just for an instant, just for the taste of it. He understands this now, why his brothers would not tell him of this, why his father would not; this is vastly different: this is between men, men knowing men; and his own arrow throbs, although he is not touching it, taking him by surprise.

“We must – we must go to the sky,” Muirġa says, stumbling over his words, taking Esca by the hand and pulling him to his feet. He catches up two skins with his other hand, and Esca hardly has time to scrabble for the small ointment pot before Muirġa is pulling them into the long, low entryway. Muirġa drops to his hands and knees in his haste to exit, and Esca follows suit, scrambling after him.

They emerge into fog, lighter patches of grey swirling about their feet, the sky showing no hint of light beyond the diffused light surrounding the low-hanging moon. The fog is thick enough that Muirġa, a few paces ahead, is obscured when it drifts past him. He stops suddenly and Esca catches him up. Muirġa hoots like an owl, twice, and is answered almost immediately by a single hoot nearby. The _fennidi_ are guarding them, Esca realises. He ought to have thought of that before, and his face burns to think what they might have heard before the clouds in his mind scatter again, this time under the light of his memory: the walls of the _borra_ are thick and there was little chance anything at all was heard outside them.

“The sky will not see much of our faces,” he says into Muirġa’s ear.

Once again Muirġa laughs, a short, sharp bark that sounds disused. “That is for the sky to worry,” he says, and Esca laughs in turn as he is drawn through the fog, hand in hand with the sure-footed Muirġa. The grass is cold and damp under his feet but the fire still dances on his skin and his heart is warm in his chest.

They come to a stop a short time later; Esca can hear the crash of the waves below. “This is the headland,” Muirġa says briefly. “It overlooks the sea cave, where we go next.”

“If you say so,” Esca says, and he sees Muirġa’s teeth flash white and knows he is smiling.

“You have a trusting heart, Esca,” Muirġa says, shaking out one of the skins – a wolf skin, and the thought brings a smile to Esca’s face – laying it flat on the grass before them. “It must have given your father some worry.”

“I do not think so,” Esca says with a shrug. “But I was the youngest, and not often in my father’s confidence. It seemed to me he did not worry overmuch.”

“That may be true,” Muirġa says after a moment’s thought, and although it is dark, Esca can tell he is not smiling. “Come,” he says, lowering himself to the skin and pulling Esca down with him. “Like this, I think. It will go easier.” He guides Esca to straddle him, then pulls the second skin around Esca’s shoulders.

Esca’s mouth is suddenly dry, his heart pounding; it is close enough to earlier, to what he wanted then; is it deliberate?

Does it matter?

Muirġa’s lips are soft against his throat, and his spear, half hard now, is tucked up against Esca’s. Muirġa’s hand is on Esca’s, feeling within the circle of his fingers for the ointment.

“Will you – for just–” Esca licks the top of Muirġa’s ear, then slips his tongue between Muirġa’s lips before sliding down to kneel between Muirġa’s legs. Muirġa’s spear stiffens almost immediately, before Esca has time to do more than cast his breath across the already-slick head, and as he closes his mouth over it, he hears a moan from above him, quickly bitten off.

“Please,” he hears, barely a whisper, a breath only on the wind. “I cannot – cannot ask–"

He cannot ask for mercy, not where the other _fennidi_ can hear; that much Esca knows. He licks once more, then releases it, replacing his mouth with his hand, the hand in which he has been warming the ointment. Muirġa’s spear jumps under his touch, and Esca coats it quickly; Muirġa’s vigor has been fully restored by their rest, or perhaps by the spiced mead.

“Now,” he says to Muirġa, pulling himself up to straddle Muirġa once more.

“Are you–"

“It will rest,” Esca says, reaching behind him while Muirġa holds him steady, as if they have been doing this all their lives. There is pressure, then an ache of pain as he is breached. Muirġa leans in, breathing hard, pushing up slowly while Esca holds his breath, closing his eyes and remembering the fire dancing on Muirġa’s skin, the taste of Muirġa’s seed on his tongue, the feel of Muirġa’s seed painting the insides of his thighs as they rested in the _borra_. He takes a deep breath and feels his body give way to Muirġa’s slow, upward urging. Then Muirġa is seated, all the way in, Esca in his lap, and they both breathe together, in, then out.

“ _A ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa breathes in his ear, barely audible. “I must move.”

“Please,” Esca whispers back. “Please, move.” He can feel an ache deep inside him and he wants nothing more than to feel the fire on his skin echoed in his depths. He shifts his thighs, nudging Muirġa as he would a horse, just as he thought it might work earlier. He can feel Muirġa’s thighs trembling beneath his, and he runs his hand down Muirġa’s shoulder to his arm, settling him as he would a horse ridden hard.

Muirġa pushes in, then pulls out, a tiny increment, but enough to spark a deeper ache within Esca. But he lets Muirġa set the rhythm; Muirġa knows his own body, his own needs. And Muirġa has something else on his mind, it is clear: as they rock together, he says, “If I were your father, I would have had some worry for you.”

“You – yes,” Esca says, bracing himself with one hand on Muirġa’s shoulder so he can move more easily. “As my shield-brother, you – you may–”

“As your shield-brother,” Muirġa says, stilling suddenly and putting a hand on either side of Esca’s face, “as your brother, Esca, I swear this to you, I will take your life and then my own, rather than let you fall into their hands to be used thus.”

Esca feels the breath leave his body, as if he has hit the ground after falling a great distance. “ _A Ṁuirġa_ , you – there is–”

“Please know I regard Cunoval with all honour,” Muirġa says, still quietly, but each word distinct. “He did this for your mother. And you are here, after all. But you must know this.”

“I am a man now,” Esca says. “I would expect nothing less.”

“We will leave it there,” Muirġa says.

“ _My_ mind is elsewhere,” Esca says, and Muirġa laughs, as he intended, at the emphasis Esca puts on the first word.

But as Muirġa leans in, moving again, and urging Esca to move with him, he says into Esca’s ear, “I cannot separate the two at all.”

There are too many ways to take that, and now is not the time to parse his meaning. The fog is swirling around them, the wind picking up, and he is caught out of time, each of Muirġa’s thrusts pushing him higher.

Muirġa slides a hand to the back of his neck, dropping his other hand to the base of Esca’s spine, pulling Esca in. They can’t move much, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Muirġa: his eyes are closed; his bottom lip is caught in his teeth. Their rhythm echoes the swell of the sea, undulations rising and falling as Muirġa pushes in and Esca urges him on. He leans in to press his mouth against Muirġa’s, pulling his knee up so he can seat himself fully in the cradle of Muirġa’s loins. Muirġa grunts into his mouth, his hand tightening almost painfully on the back of Esca’s neck, his other hand gripping Esca’s hip hard. Then Esca feels Muirġa’s spear swell; he feels the flutters deep inside as Muirġa thrusts once more and then stills, grunting again into his mouth and Esca taking in all of it, his seed and his sounds.

Muirġa drops his forehead to Esca’s shoulder, both arms wrapped around Esca now, and Esca can feel Muirġa’s heart pounding, thudding against his chest, echoing in Esca’s. Esca presses his mouth to the soft skin under Muirġa’s ear. “I am slow to climb the hill,” he whispers, and he feels the muscles in Muirġa’s face move as Muirġa smiles.

“I have raced to the top,” he says, just as quietly as Esca, thrusting forward once more and then releasing a shuddering sigh that shakes Esca inside and out. Muirġa’s spear has lost its edge; although Esca tries not to move at all, he feels it slipping out. He is caught, trapped between the land and the sea, between Muirġa’s release and his own, not daring to move, not able to think beyond the ache between his own legs–

“Come,” Muirġa whispers, his voice hitching, still trying to catch his breath. He slides both hands under Esca to lift him and Esca scrambles for purchase, the fur of the wolf’s skin slick under the soles of his feet. “It is time now for me, my archer.” On his back, Esca blinks up at Muirġa; the sky is reluctantly showing its predawn light, enough that he can see more than the shadowed spaces in Muirġa’s face; and he can see Muirġa is not smiling.

But he has no time to ponder this; he is too near release, and Muirġa is already settling between his legs. He expects the hand; Muirġa’s grip is firm and practiced and Esca groans in grateful relief as Muirġa strokes him, quick short strokes that leave Esca panting, thrusting wildly into Muirġa’s hand. He laughs suddenly; he is racing up the hill now too, but he can’t form the words to share his thought. But then Muirġa laughs, as if he is one mind with Esca, and Esca closes his eyes, laughter still rumbling in his chest. He is nearing the crest of that hill, fire racing through his belly, through his veins. Muirġa presses down on his belly, one-armed, something soft brushing alongside it, and Esca opens his eyes, confused, to see Muirġa’s head looming over his belly, a dark shadow of hair falling to one side, just as Esca’s arrow is suddenly enclosed in warmth and wetness. He cannot make sense of it; he gasps for breath, his heart thundering in his ears.

He feels Muirġa’s tongue; Muirġa licks, then sucks again, his hand still tight, his hair still brushing Esca’s skin. Esca can’t catch his breath, but his body doesn’t seem to notice, his arrow straining in Muirġa’s grip, thrusting into Muirġa’s mouth. Muirġa urges him on, small grunts and wet noises escaping between his lips and his hand. “You must–” Esca manages two words only; then he explodes over the crest of the hill, like coming up from shadow into sunlight, the brightness dazzling him.

He draws breath deep into his lungs, and opens his eyes to the sky. Muirġa releases him, resting his head on Esca’s thigh, the hair soft, the skin of his scalp warm under Esca’s fingers. Esca’s head is reeling; his chest heaves, his heart thunders in his chest. “ _A_ _Ṁuirġa_ ,” he whispers, hardly aware of his words; but at the sound of his voice, Muirġa lifts his head. Esca looks down his body, down to where Muirġa is looking steadily back at him. Still holding Esca’s eyes with his own, Muirġa rubs one thumb along the corner of his mouth, one eyebrow lifting slightly; and then one corner of his mouth lifts slightly, an echo.

Esca can’t stop an answering smile from spreading across his own face: part happiness, part relief, part enchantment at the sight of this Muirġa, more like a comrade than a young war leader who must needs remember his dignity and his responsibilities. “That is a smug look,” he says, reaching his hand down to Muirġa’s face. “Well deserved, too. I ought to have known.”

“Known this?” Muirġa says, gripping Esca’s hand with his own and using it to pull himself onto Esca; the warmth is welcome and Esca fumbles behind him for the other skin, to pull it across them. “We do not commonly practice this, with the mouth. But I am your brother; I must know, since you do.”

“We are the same, then,” Esca says, closing his eyes again and pulling Muirġa in close. He speaks almost at random; his heart is singing and his mind is still dreaming: Muirġa’s rigid sense of honour would demand this sort of reciprocity, he sees that now, and it delights him.

“But… you already know this,” Muirġa says, and Esca feels fingers on his chin.

“I do,” he says. “I know of it, in the way that younger brothers know things. But my brothers refused to tell me; they told me to ask our father. I did ask him; he said I would learn when I became a man.” Esca shrugs, and smiles again, and captures Muirġa’s fingers to press them against his lips. “Now I am a man. I am learning.”

“But–” Muirġa begins, and then stops. He is silent for so long Esca opens his eyes. Muirġa is staring fixedly at him, a frown across his forehead.

“A Roman would not do that,” Esca says, his voice quiet. He knows Muirġa wants to ask, yet will not; there is a constraint between them now, the shadow of the Romans, Esca’s time as a slave. Esca is unsure how to overcome it. “At least, none I knew. They will not do it, and none who used me desired to have it done. I am sure there are some who do. But I learned of it from the warriors of the Brigantes, and only then in the shadows, whispers and laughter; and once, two who slipped into the forest’s edge. One fell to his knees where all of us could see, if we were looking; his shield-brother pulled him to his feet and they went deeper. But I knew enough by then to guess the rest.”

“And you were looking,” Muirġa says, his frown gone, replaced by a grin.

Esca laughs. “I was looking. I was a little brother. We are born curious, always trying to keep up. I followed my brothers and their friends wherever I could, whenever I could. It’s a wonderful thing that they didn’t strangle me long ago.”

Muirġa peers at him closely, his face serious again, a small frown between his eyes, as if he is pondering something. At last he says, seeming to choose the words, “I had no brothers, although I have cousins, and we were all, as you tell it, curious. But there have been no brothers for the _eannroin_.”

“It is hard to miss what you don’t know.” Esca is unsure what to say; Muirġa seems almost to be talking to himself.

“The _eannroin_ wishes to learn to shoot a bow ‘like Esca.’” Muirġa glances sidelong at him.

“I began when I was younger than he is now,” Esca says, a warm flood of memory surrounding him. “My mother’s brother, that said I would never grow tall enough to be a warrior, made a bow small enough for me to string.”

He looks up, a smile still on his mouth, to see Muirġa watching him closely. “You like him?”

“I do,” Esca says, heartfelt. “I will make him a bow. I have said I was the youngest of my brothers, the youngest by far. I always wanted a brother close to me in age.” The words are out of his mouth before he has time to think about them. His heart stumbles suddenly in his chest, because he means every word. Yet while he keeps the oath of his father to Marcus, he cannot make promises to Muirġa, or to the boy, no matter the yearning of his heart.

“You have a shield-brother now,” Muirġa says after a long silence, as Esca wrestles anew with this impossibility. There is an odd note in his voice but when Esca glances up, curious, Muirġa’s face is impassive. “Soon you will have an _eannroin_ of your own. Perhaps… perhaps I too will visit the strand on the night. Then our _eannrónta_ will grow up as brothers.” He stares off into the distance, then shakes himself. “But we should go. Are you well?”

Esca is far from well. But he cannot afford to break now.

“On to the sea?” he says as casually as he can, stretching his legs as Muirġa gets to his feet. Muirġa extends a hand to him to help him up, leaving the skins on the grass behind them. Once standing, naked, Esca’s skin prickles from the rising wind; behind him, he can hear the crash of the waves once more. The fog is lifting, from the ground and his mind as the sky has begun to lighten. He has some idea that Muirġa’s offer is generous and perhaps unprecedented. He had done his duty when it was required, and his son had lived, and was whole and strong; but, as Muirġa himself had said, there have been no others.

“The tide is in,” Muirġa says, bringing Esca back to the now. “It will be cold and wet. It cannot be helped.” He is still holding Esca’s hand in his own; Esca turns his hand and lifts Muirġa’s fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. Muirġa pulls him in for an equally brief kiss on the mouth. “Come,” he says again, and hoots twice as they walk together to the edge of the cliff. Again the answering hoot seems to come from close by, but Esca can see no one. “All is well,” Muirġa says as they reach a break in the cliff side.

“Were you expecting it not to be?” Esca asks, following Muirġa down the steep trail to the water.

Muirġa shrugs. “Our patrols find nothing but it is possible someone seeks you and your thrall. The _finte_ in the lowlands mutter and worry about Romans, their outposts, their patrols.” He glances over his shoulder at Esca, his eyes keen. “As they should.”

Esca shrugs in turn. “There is not an argument against that.”

Muirġa turns his attention back to the steep trail they are descending and Esca follows closely. The chill wind blowing off the water raises bumps on his skin, and he reaches out to Muirġa to see if his feels the same. Muirġa, moving swiftly, slows at Esca’s touch, as if he thinks Esca is steadying himself.

“And your slave has been a concern to the _feann_ ,” Muirġa says, not looking back at Esca but sounding no more than amused. Still, Esca feels his stomach muscles tighten in alarm. “He makes many complaints. He tries even to make himself understood, asking for you.”

“My apologies,” Esca says. “I was thinking he was occupied.”

“He is,” Muirġa says. “He will continue to be. He favours his leg, it seems.” He glances back at Esca. “The injury that is the reason you were purchased for him?”

“The very one.”

“He received the injury in battle?”

“He did.”

“Against our people.”

There is nothing to be said to that. The Romans believe Marcus bears the favour of the gods: he foresaw the attack that saved his outpost, and his injury, a result of a war chariot running him down, should have killed him. The journey to the house of his uncle ought to have, then: he was exhausted, feverish, the wound on his leg as angry and hot as his temper, according to Stephanos, acquainting Esca with his new duties.

Marcus himself attributes his survival to more than fate. Marcus speaks little of this god of his, save only that he watches over soldiers like Marcus’ father. But Esca has seen his rituals, daily, and sometimes more often than that, to a god not many Romans worship. Esca had not even heard Mithras spoken of in the household of his second owner, so to call this Mithras a soldier’s god is, he feels, Marcus simplifying the matter. Marcus’ uncle would shake his head if Marcus mentioned him; he believes in fate only, no gods. Esca’s beliefs are more aligned with Marcus’ uncle than not, but his private conviction is simply that Marcus was too stubborn to die, fate or gods notwithstanding.

But perhaps Marcus is more clever than Esca has realised. This hope is confirmed by Muirġa’s next words. “It is why he does not run.” They have reached the base of the trail now, and it is a short drop to the rocky crescent of land between the hill and the sea. Muirġa leaps down and turns, but Esca has already launched himself after Muirġa, landing lightly beside him. “I confess to you, brother, I thought him less than a man, that he did not try to run once he understood.”

“He would not survive it,” Esca says, and the cold reality of the words creeps into his stomach and sits there like a rock.

“It would not matter to some.”

There is nothing to say to that; Esca knows it had not mattered, eventually, to him. He was fortunate – if it could be termed that – that his first owner was indolent; that his second owner was distracted; that his third saw easy profit. It is impossible as a slave, he learned, to know the caprices of masters; death, always an alternative for any born to the Brigantes, must be an acceptable alternative to all who were born free and then enslaved, he knows that now. He still remembers almost the first words Marcus spoke to him, a taunt, if he had but known it, a twist of the knife: “Why didn’t you run? My uncle wouldn’t have stopped you.” No; but his slaves would have, and the entire slave-catching apparatus of the Roman Empire, dedicated to hunting down their captives, their slaves, and punishing them unto death.

They have stopped at the water’s edge and Muirġa is regarding him gravely. Esca meets his eyes, squaring his shoulders.

“You ran,” Muirġa says, intent yet so quiet Esca can barely hear him above the waves.

“Twice,” Esca says. He attempts a smile: “I was misnamed: I was not swift enough.”

Like Marcus, he reminds himself; and he reminds himself again that Marcus cannot count on anything or anyone but Esca. There will be no mercy for a lone Roman at the hands of any north of the wall, and it is no matter that Marcus knew it, entering into his undertaking clear-eyed, knowing if he had misjudged Esca’s character he deserved to die. Nor can he tell Muirġa any of it; the pieces of the story that would grant Marcus respect in Muirġa’s eyes, however grudging, are the pieces that would betray both of them.

This is all too close to Esca’s heart: the lump in his stomach has climbed into his chest to squat there, heavy and leaden and cold.

Muirġa gazes at him for a few seconds longer, his eyes searching Esca’s face until Esca feels naked inside and out. “Follow me,” he says finally. “Stiffen your spine, my archer. The tide has not turned and there is some risk, but I know the path to safety.”

Esca closes his eyes without meaning to, anguish cleaving his heart. It would be so easy. Muirġa is a man to be depended on, a man in whom other men can put their trust.

And yet, if Muirġa knew that Esca had betrayed Marcus so completely, Muirġa would never respect him again – nor would Esca deserve any respect at all.

“It is fitting,” he says finally, when he can trust his voice. He opens his eyes to see Muirġa watching him. “Lead on, shield-brother.”

Muirġa raises a hand to Esca’s face and opens his mouth as if to speak, then evidently thinks the better of it, taking Esca by the hand and saying, “Come, then.”

 

* * *

### Footnotes

33. I took no liberties with the location of the Brigantes (roughly, the western end of Hadrian's Wall, in the area north of York); perhaps they could have travelled to a site such as Seahenge on a regular basis. For more on Seahenge: <http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/388988.stm>.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503436#orig_33) to the story.

34. Most meteorites contain some iron. For more information: <http://meteorite.unm.edu/meteorites/meteorite-museum/how-id-meteorite/>.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503436#orig_34) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I can taste the ocean on your skin_  
>  _That is where it all begins_  
>   
>  ~We All Go Back To Where We Belong, R.E.M.


	5. You speak your mind and you cannot take it back

They wade into the water swiftly. The sky is light now, light enough for Esca to see the direction they're heading. There is a small islet that at low tide has a causeway. The islet shelters the sandy strand where, Esca knows, the fires of Lugos will be lit. But Muirġa is heading away from the causeway and around the side, where there is a cliff. The water is waist high now, the tide rushing swiftly. The salt of the water stings him, between his thighs, but the cold of it soothes.

“Keep me warm with your words. Tell me of your brothers,” Muirġa says, pushing his way forward through the strong current, his fingers the only warmth Esca can feel. Muirġa seems to be feeling his way and Esca is careful to follow him closely.

“The eldest,” Esca says, his teeth beginning to chatter. “C-Cartival. Froechan was the s-s-second. They were c-close in age, t-t-tall and strong.”

“Were there m-many years between you?”

“There were,” Esca says. “T-t-ten. Between Cartival and m-m-me. Seven f-from F-Froechan. My mother lost two between us.” He takes a breath and finds words to tell Muirġa of his gratitude, stilling his chattering teeth. “I would like our sons to grow up as brothers, Ṁuirġa. I thank you.”

“It is little enough,” Muirġa says gruffly, but he puts a hand at the back of Esca's neck for a moment's and squeezes.

They have reached the cliff now and Esca can see a cleft in it that is not apparent from the shore. Muirġa makes for this cleft; the passage is narrow and dark and the water is almost chest high in parts, but there is light from inside to show the way.

“Clever,” Esca says in Muirġa's ear.

“This is the seals’ entrance,” Muirġa says quietly, but his voice echoes all the same. “When I was a boy, we used to challenge each other to swim through it at high tide, when the currents are fiercest. Now I think my father must have known, but at the time we had a fear of getting caught: this cave has been sacred to our people for time out of mind, although it is not certain who came to it first, the people of the sea or the people of the seals. It does not matter; we are the same, after all.” He lets go Esca's hand and plunges beneath the water, swimming under the surface like the seals. Esca takes a deep breath and does the same, surfacing inside a large cavern where there is a crescent of sand and torches lit along the wall.

Muirġa is standing stock still in the water where he surfaced, and when Esca opens his mouth, Muirġa holds out his hand, all five fingers outstretched, against Esca's chest. Esca follows his gaze and sees a seal on the sand, a smaller seal beside her.

“We are honoured,” Muirġa says, his words barely a breath in Esca's ear. “This is my grandmother. This is not the season for seals to be on land, yet she is here to greet us.” There is a note of triumph in his voice; this, Esca knows, will be an argument in favour of his initiation into the _teglach_. “Grandmother, mother of the sea,” Muirġa says, raising his voice only slightly; the cave's echo is fierce. “I bring you Esca mac Cunoval ua Neṁnainn, who has joined our _teglach_ this night and joins the _feann_ at the full of the moon.” He bends his head, in a deeper obeisance than the one he had made to his father the first day Esca had met Nechtann.

Esca knows very little about seals but it is certain this one is used to the Seal People; she raises her head and looks in their direction, the smaller one next to her looking to her first and then to Muirġa and Esca, standing in the middle of the water, waist-high.

The next thing Esca knows is that she has slid into the water, more gracefully than her bulk would suggest, the smaller one shadowing her. Muirġa stands back, and Esca follows his lead, expecting her to swim from the cave. But she makes for the two of them, standing there, while the smaller one hangs back, watching. Muirġa draws in his breath in a startled gasp as she swims around the two of them, and then between them, so close to Esca that he feels one of her flippers brush his shin. She swims around Esca once more, her head out of the water again. Then she dives and Esca feels her whiskered snout against his leg, where her flipper brushed. He is frozen in place; Muirġa is staring, wide-eyed, equally frozen. Esca knows better than to move; kin or not, she is still a wild thing. When she surfaces again, she circles them once more, then grunts at the smaller one. They disappear down the passageway and Muirġa lets his breath go all at once, the sound splashing against all the walls of the cave.

“By Manann,” he breathes, staring after her. “By Manann...”

“Your grandmother, you say,” Esca says, wrapping his arms around himself to try to bring warmth. “She seems nice.”

But Muirġa doesn't laugh. Muirġa doesn't even seem to hear him. He is still staring after the seal.

Esca wants to ask many questions but with Muirġa so astonished he doesn't quite dare. Instead he wades to the spit of sand, careful to avoid the spot where the seals were resting. The air in the cave is fresh, but not as cool as the outside air. Still his flesh prickles as the water drips from him and he shakes himself, then begins to brush the water off. The movement seems to call Muirġa back, and he slowly wades through the water to join Esca, looking over his shoulder once or twice.

“Nechtann must be told,” he says, as if talking to himself. “I have never heard of this.”

“She is your father’s mother?” Esca asks.

For the first time since the seal entered the water, Muirġa looks over at him. “Yes,” he says, but his eyes are still seeming to look past Esca. “My – Nechtann was her second son. He was born with the caul. He was meant to – he was to watch over our _fine_ , over all the people of the sea, the bridge between us. But his older brother died in a fall.”

Many pieces click into place for Esca. Among the Brigantes, and other _finte_ , the druids are set apart. While they are often warriors, they are never leaders of their respective _finte_. But Nechtann is both, it is clear. That this is not customary among the Seal People either is now explained. It has been difficult for Esca to understand how Nechtann is a warrior when he wears none of the paint or the talismans, or why the Seal People fought the Roman legion so fiercely. Now much is accounted for. Cunoval would never have thought to hack the feet from the dying and the dead, and that part of the tale was new to him when Guern told it. But a druid would have thought of it; and Nechtann is the same as a druid, to the Seal People.

“She came to him in a dream, after she joined our ancestors,” Muirġa says, a quick glance at Esca all he spares. “The next summer, she was here in the cave. Sometimes there were others, sometimes she was alone. She has been here since before I was born.” He looks at Esca then. “She is said to talk with my father. But her visits have grown fewer since–” He breaks off, peering at Esca more closely.

The next thing Esca knows he is enfolded in Muirġa's arms. Although Muirġa's flesh is as chilled as Esca's, their bodies together create pockets of warmth almost immediately, and Esca buries his face in Muirġa's neck. “Your lips are blue,” Muirġa says in his ear, rubbing Esca's back briskly. “A thousand apologies, Esca.” He feels Muirġa's fingers beneath his chin; then Muirġa's lips are on Esca's. His mouth is warm, and his tongue, and Esca tries to lose himself in Muirġa's embrace. But it is not enough – he is chilled through and Muirġa's state is not much better.

“Come,” Muirġa says after a few moments. “Calcach will have prepared a fire for us, on the other side.”

But he does not move, nor does his embrace slacken; and Esca remains quiescent. “Esca,” he says then, in a low voice; and then he pauses. “My archer...”

“My spearman,” Esca whispers, and is rewarded with a faint rumble of laughter, deep in Muirġa's chest. Now that Muirġa has mentioned the fire, Esca fancies he can hear the crackle of flames over the susurration of the waves echoing off the walls of the cave. Still Muirġa does not move; Esca holds back a sigh, and tries to hold back his shivering.

“This is the final joining,” Muirġa says at last.

"Facing the sea,” Esca says.

Muirġa seems to come to some decision. “Come,” he says, drawing Esca by the hand back into the pool at the center of the cave.

The water seems almost warm after the chill of the sandy spit. Esca keeps hold of Muirġa's hand more for companionship than because it is needed for balance; the cavern's floor is worn smooth by many years and many waves, and they cross drifts of sand here and there. As they near the tall rock in the middle of the pool, he hears the crackle of a fire. Muirġa does not look at him, or say anything, but his grip on Esca's hand tightens as he wades out of the water, Esca close behind him, and they round the rock.

There is a fire, burning high and bright, already warming Esca's skin – it is close by the side of the rock. Esca moves closer, Muirġa following him now, and basks for a few precious moments in its warmth before he looks around. There is the fire; there are torches, spaced around the walls and some at what Esca knows is the other entrance, that can be reached by land when the tide is out.

And as he looks around at the rest of the cave, there, glinting in the firelight, is Marcus' Eagle, raised high. There, at its base, are skins and a pot of mead.

There, underneath Rome's haughty nose, Muirġa and Esca will join once more. He cannot stifle it: a snort of laughter escapes his lips.

Muirġa, who has been watching him closely, seems taken aback. His lips part and he draws in breath to speak; but Esca forestalls him. There is no reason, after all, not to be honest.

“There is Rome,” he says, nodding at the Eagle. “Here are the savages, rutting beneath its very nose.”

Even in the firelight, he can see Muirġa's face go pale.

“No,” he says quickly, putting a hand on Muirġa's arm. “These are neither my words nor my beliefs. I spoke without thinking. It is a fault of mine.”

Muirġa looks him over, quiet; and Esca can feel the anger still under his skin. Cold fear runs like iron up his spine, spreading into his belly. The Eagle is their talisman, after all, and none but Esca would find the whole of it funny. His mother often said his tongue would be the death of him. He is only surprised, at this point, it hasn’t already been.

“These are not your words, but his,” Muirġa says, dangerously quiet. “This is what he said to you. After I kissed you. After I left.”

"After we kissed,” Esca says, just as quietly.

“You are no longer to be a target for his rage,” Muirġa growls, moving closer to Esca. “I know a threat when I hear it spoken, even if I do not understand his tongue, and I have heard this threat to you. I know you have saved his life. I will tolerate this no more.”

Dangerous ground, indeed. “He is a proud man, once free, and deceived by one he saw as no threat,” Esca says carefully. “I mourned my losses for years before I could think clearly.”

“He is a fool who cannot see beyond his own nose!” Muirġa says roundly. “He is not worth time spent thinking about him. Your losses are far greater–”

“As are my gains,” Esca says, cutting him off.

“What gains?” Muirġa says. “What gains, son of Cunoval? How many Romans bought you, who were born a free man to the lord of five hundred spears who bore the blue war shields? How many used your body? How many times did you face death with no one to mourn you, after?”

“So you would exact some revenge for my honour?” Esca says, keeping his voice even. “I have gained all. He has nothing now.”

“You are not a weak man,” Muirġa says, frowning. “You are a warrior. You are brave and true. I have seen it. But you turn away anger with soft words. You hold to a justice that your enemy does not. Why is this, Esca? What is this – eagle to you?” He might as well have said “Roman” as “eagle;” the thought is there.

When Esca does not answer, Muirġa cocks his head. “You know my father has his suspicions. I have certainty. It is too pat, a Roman coming here, and his name a name out of time. But he could not have reached us without your aid. You could have left him to fend for himself at any time. The Roman reach does not extend north of their wall.”

“I could not,” Esca says firmly. “I gave my word.”

“Your word?” Muirġa says, raising an eyebrow. Then he laughs, and Esca stares at him, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I had feared it was a life-debt.”

“These were the same, to my father,” Esca says. For the first time the ice-cold panic in his stomach is speared through with the fire of anger, and he must grip his temper with both hands. If he betrays the fact of his life-debt to Marcus, they are both lost: Muirġa will realize the implications immediately, and both he and Marcus will die shortly thereafter, their skulls tossed in Nechtann’s charnel pool. And, he realises suddenly, Muirġa’s head may well join theirs: he is under a life-debt of his own, now, and Esca knows in his bones that Nechtann will show no mercy even — or perhaps especially — to his own son.

“To your father, yes,” Muirġa is saying. “To my father, to me; to any man from the Setantæ, to any from the Iceni, the Cornovii, and now the Brigantes. I ask you, Esca: how many of these men took the word of the Romans? How many of these our people are still alive?”

“Honour is honour,” Esca says carefully, his head still spinning as he grapples with his new understanding. “We cannot redefine it because they do.”

“Noble words,” Muirġa says. “Noble words from the noble Cunoval. And now he is dead, and his children are dead or enslaved. I am harsh with you, Esca, because your notions of honour, to a Roman, will get you killed.” He pauses; in a softer voice, that is worse for its affection, he adds, “Or worse, as you already know, to your great sorrow.”

“This honour is what remains of my father.” Esca can barely bite the words out, and he has to remind himself as his own pain rises that Muirġa does not know, and cannot know, how these words flay Esca's skin from his very bones.

Muirġa’s eyes narrow. “You do not expect the Romans to understand this, Esca. You cannot. What they call honour, we call pride. What we call honour, they call savage.” He spits the word, his hatred evident, and sweeps his hand around him in a wide gesture. “They make a desert, and they call that peace, all who would argue murdered or stolen.”

“This is true,” Esca says at last, and it takes all his strength to keep his voice steady although his eyes are wet.

Muirġa studies him for a long moment. “You have brought the Roman here. You have found the eagle. Now. Tell me, now what? He cannot kill us all. He cannot run.”

“The Roman legion disappeared,” Esca says quietly. “They do not know, Rome does not know, what happened to it.”

“They do not ask.”

“We do not tell,” Esca says. “I knew. I did not tell. He came north to find out for himself what happened to his father.”

“And is that enough for him? Answers?” Muirġa says. “He is ill tempered. He is not suited for life here. The people of the seals are not suited by slaves.”

Esca does not allow his eyes to flicker but he realizes the import of Muirġa’s words. Carefully choosing his own, he says, “So you would sacrifice him?”

“So you would free him?” Muirġa counters. “To bring more Romans? To slaughter more of our people?”

“I would not take any such decision alone,” Esca says, meeting Muirġa's eyes and pausing for a long, deliberate moment: again he bargains for Marcus’ life, but this time the threat is subtle, a dagger’s edge slipping between his ribs instead of held to his throat. “But to sacrifice him, _a Ṁuirġa_ , to sacrifice him would go against all my honour and my life. I could no longer call myself a son of Cunoval. My father's name is all I have left of him. I will not dishonor it.”

“A promise to this Roman filth is not a life-debt,” Muirġa says. “This is not a life-debt, Esca. My father will not–”

“Your father.” Esca interrupts quickly, not daring to consider too much on his course; daggers are double-edged, after all. “Your father, who accepted a life-debt from you, his son?”

Muirġa is silent; his eyes flicker, briefly, to the floor.

Esca presses his momentary advantage. “Why? Why would you do this? Why would you take a life-debt for me?”

“You belong here,” Muirġa says slowly. When he looks up, there is a frown creasing his forehead. “You have earned this freedom, Esca, this place that your heart can call home. It — it is in my power to give it to you.”

“A life-debt is not–”

“This was the agreement with Nechtann,” Muirġa says firmly, cutting him off.

They stare at each other for what seems like forever.

“...your father?” Esca whispers, after a long, long time. “Your _father_ exacted this? Why? Why would he ask this of you? Tell me why a father would ask this of his son?”

For the first time since Esca has met him, Muirġa's composure cracks, only a little, only around the edges, but enough for Esca to see it; and he feels his stomach roil: how have they come to this? He sees no way forward; every heartbeat is agony. “Why?” he asks again, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Muirġa's voice sounds far away all at once. “We... do not agree on certain... on some...”

All Esca’s feelings rush to fill his heart; the words overflow without thought. “But you are a son first, _a Ṁuirġa_.”

“It may be thus with the Brigantes,” Muirġa says, his composure restored, a shrug readying itself on his shoulders.

“It should be thus always.” Esca can hardly speak for the lump strangling him, high in his throat. His instinct was true: along with Esca and Marcus, Muirġa too will be sacrificed if all becomes known; and the path to this new treachery has been set in place by one old enough, wise enough to know better, one whose heart must be made of stone, that he treats his own blood so.

“It will never be thus with my – with Nechtann,” Muirġa says, with a finality that a fortnight ago Esca would never have thought to face. “This is how we survive, Esca. This is how we survive Romans, and eagles, and stray archers of the Brigantes.”

But Esca’s heart is not made of stone, and he can’t stop the question, though as he utters it he knows it is useless. “But is this – is this how you want to live?”

“The life-debt is mine, not yours, Esca. I will not speak of it again.”

Anger is sparking in Muirġa's eyes; he is not used to being challenged thus. Could they speak together, Marcus could have told him, Esca thinks, a momentary spark of humour lightening his heart, that Esca was the wrong choice if he wanted pliancy, if he wanted collusion, if he wanted quiescence. Esca is not that man.

“You may not,” Esca says. “But your life-debt is mine also now, and I will speak of it when I please.” He sets his jaw and squares his shoulders, looking steadily at Muirġa.

“You are... Brigantes,” Muirġa says, his voice halting.

“Your life-debt is mine also now,” Esca repeats. “I am your shield-brother. You yourself said the gods were satisfied, and that was before anything else that followed between us.”

“My archer,” Muirġa says, his voice hoarse. But he does not move; only his voice, and his eyes, betray his feelings.

Esca had no idea what he had gotten himself into; and now his confusion has multiplied a thousand-fold. Coming north with Marcus on this fool's errand was enough for ten lifetimes. Already under a life-debt to Marcus, he has now taken one on for, and with, Muirġa, and there is no way forward that he can see. He only knows the way his heart dances toward Muirġa when Muirġa smiles, the way his heart pulls him toward this man, and this man's _teglach_ , and even his _fine_.

He says the words, not knowing what they are until they fall from his lips. “There is that in my heart that calls to you. I have felt it since we met.”

But he cannot promise loyalty to Muirġa, not yet. He opens his mouth again, to caution Muirġa, to speak against his apparent promise, but he is too late. Muirġa has moved at last; Muirġa’s lips are on his, Muirġa's hands, all of Muirġa's length stretched out against him.

“ _A_ _ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa whispers, pulling Esca towards the fire. “Never have I–” But Esca can’t let him go on; his own imminent treachery looms impossibly large. He kisses Muirġa back, capturing his mouth and his words.

No good will come of this deception, this betrayal, and none should: all that can come of it is the promise to Marcus, kept. And should he survive the keeping of that promise, this promise, now, to Muirġa, will end with Esca's death at Muirġa’s hands. He knows that now. And it makes the following moments all the more sweet: Esca has to breathe in every second, has to consciously allow himself to think, to feel, _yes, this – this feeling, this mouth on my neck; these hands on my belly; my hands pulling him against me_. Because beyond these moments of presence, Esca is lost, lost in a howling storm of darkness and despair.

Not defeat; and that is all he can cling to, as Muirġa caresses him, lips and hands warm; all he can cling to, that knowledge and Muirġa's flesh, under his fingers, in his mouth. And, finally, Muirġa, spread beneath him on the fur, ointment warm on his fingers and Esca’s arrow, lifting his knees, urging Esca onward and inward. Esca had not expected such a surrender; it feels like a final betrayal, and yet there is a fire in his heart that impels him forward, pushing into Muirġa as Muirġa has shown him, aiming for the mystery inside Muirġa even while every point in his body tingles with that selfsame fire, flickering up and down his skin as if he has tasted the herbed honey. But it is only the two of them, joined at the fire, facing the sea, Muirġa straining toward release and Esca following him, stroke after stroke, Muirġa’s spear wet against his belly. Then he feels Muirġa’s seed spreading warm on his skin while Muirġa’s spear pulses like a heartbeat, steady and strong, trapped between them, his body clenching around Esca. At last his own seed is spilling inside Muirġa, and Esca is lost in the depths: despair or joy, he cannot disentangle them. They are mixed together, like thread tumbled upside down from a spindle.

But worse is yet to come: as Muirġa gasps for breath, his hands still clenched tight on Esca’s hips, he tells Esca what Esca's heart longs to hear, yet cannot bear the sound of: “My heart answers your call. I too have felt it, yet feared to say it, my archer. I am shamed.”

“ _A_ _ṡearc_ ,” Esca whispers, putting a finger to Muirġa's lips to stop more words, the endearment falling far too naturally from his own. “Did you think I was unaware? That I longed for another? Áed, perhaps, or Calcach?”

He feels Muirġa's mouth stretch in a smile beneath his finger, wholehearted and heartfelt. “I cannot see your thoughts, _eascann mór_ ,” he whispers in return. “You seemed to have a partiality for Maróg. What was I to think?”

This intimacy is more dangerous than all the rest, Esca realises, far too late. The warmth, the grip, around his arrow, now no longer softening inside Muirġa, leaves him empty headed, even giddy, whether at the novelty of feeling himself within Muirġa or the sensation of Muirġa tight around him; and although he has caught glimpses of this Muirġa earlier, now he is unmasked, a man among men, an equal. No, more: a match; and yet it is all in vain. Muirġa continues, unheeding: “Of sisters, Maróg has none, it is true.”

Esca silences him with a kiss; Muirġa abandons his play and returns the kiss as if they both had not just spent, straining against Esca, hooking both legs behind Esca to hold him close. Esca feels the familiar tension again low in his belly, a twinge between his legs. He would have said his stones were empty; certainly he has spilled enough this night. But feeling Muirġa around him still, in every way, leaves him breathless, that fire dancing on his skin and between them, and his arrow rises to the challenge as Muirġa plunges his tongue deep into Esca's mouth.

“The gods – are – well satisfied,” Muirġa gasps, his voice matching his body as he meets Esca thrust for thrust.

“Even... like... this?” Esca cannot help his curiosity, even as Muirġa tightens around him; he had the impression, clearly the wrong one, that the ritual was a singular direction.

“Especially – like – this,” Muirġa says between clenched teeth. And once again Esca sees Muirġa's wildness: he holds nothing back, rolling them together, urging Esca to plunge deeper deeper, his hands everywhere, even behind Esca, a finger pressing into him, until Esca can see and feel nothing but Muirġa's body beneath his, then above, Muirġa pleasuring himself on Esca's arrow until Esca bows beneath him, until his seed flies from it once again into Muirġa's body. Muirġa's hand moves on his own spear in a blur of speed as Esca thrusts again and again; then Muirġa's spear is spitting, too, a thin stream, almost transparent, and Muirġa laughs, triumphant, exhausted. “You have – drained me, my archer,” he gasps. “The gods will – will be pleased by this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And all the beads of water move up the glass_  
>  _You speak your mind, you cannot take it back_  
>  _Walk a tightrope, walk a little tightrope_  
>    
>  Tightrope, WALK THE MOON


	6. I want to be your left-hand man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be delayed, since I'll be at a conference next week. 
> 
> I also finished coding the footnotes and updating the the already-posted chapters in the hope that they'll work better for those reading on mobile devices.

They doze then, for a time, Esca aware only in flashes that the fire burns low, that the tide ebbs. He wakes with a start: staring at him from the shadows is Cernunnos, the Horned One, his face impassive and still, what little light remains of the fire glinting from his face and his horns. For a moment he thinks he dreams, that he is sleeping still; then Muirġa, still atop him, shifts, pinching Esca's stones between his thigh and Muirġa's leg. Esca stares fixedly at the god in the shadows, waiting for a sign, or for him to move. He is certain it is a trick of the light; but he is equally certain he sees what he sees. His heart begins to beat faster: has the god moved?

Muirġa stirs sleepily, clearly trying to wake himself. “Esca? What–”

“Shhh,” Esca whispers, jerking his chin towards the shadows.

Muirġa blinks, bleary eyed, and then frowns. “It is Cernunnos,” he says, his voice normal.

“I can see–”

“No,” Muirġa says, patient, leaning in to kiss Esca lightly at one corner of his mouth. “It is the mask of the Horned One. His spirit will walk among us the night you enter the _feann_. There are other times as well.”

It is a mask, Esca realises with a rush of relief. More than that, it is a headdress of some kind. This was not something he had ever seen, in his _fine_ ; but, then, he was not an initiate. Since this headdress is kept here, along with the Roman trophy, and probably other objects as well, it is meant for the initiates of the _fine_. But he can't shake the feeling that the Horned One is watching them; watching _him_ , as if he knows what is in Esca's heart. Esca wishes he himself knew; but it is all more tangled than before, the only path forward that of Cunoval’s – and Esca's – honour.

“My archer,” Muirġa says, apparently dismissing the presence of the Horned One as easily as he would swat a fly, stretching luxuriously atop Esca. “Are you well?”

“I am,” Esca says, but he glances at the Horned One once more. He had not noticed it earlier–

“He watches over the eagle,” Muirġa says, following his words with a lengthy yawn. “Nechtann says the eagle brought victory to the _fine_.” He shrugs. “But some say that it angers the gods to have this eagle, that Romans worship, here among our own.” He rolls off Esca and pulls Esca over onto him. “Some have said this eagle of the Romans caused the wall to be built. And some say there have been no victories since it came.” He cocks his head at Esca, but now there is no suspicion in his eyes, only laughter. “Some even say it angers the gods to have an archer of the Brigantes in our _feann_.”

Esca cannot muster more than a smile, although clearly Muirġa finds the thought ridiculous. “Bridei?” Esca asks, more for conversation than because he believes it. But Muirġa shakes his head.

“Bridei follows Nechtann, and has since they were boys,” he says. “Does Bridei think the eagle belongs in the sacred place? None can say. Does he think you do not belong in the _feann_? Again, none can say. But there are those who say no to this eagle; and there are others who say no to more _fennidi_ , at least those of our _teglach_.” He pulls Esca down for a warm kiss. “The _feann_ do not concern themselves with these old men. Some of them, like Bridei and Nechtann, were not of the _feann_ ; they do not know of our lives. Tell me of your warriors, your _feann_ , what you know.”

“My-my father and brothers,” Esca says, and then he has to clear his throat. “My father’s brothers.”

“Five hundred spears,” Muirġa says softly. “Your _fine_ had much food, to have that many men.”

“Not enough,” Esca says, almost to himself; and when he pulls back from Muirġa, Muirġa lets him go, propping himself on one elbow and smoothing a hand across Esca’s chest.

“It was enough when all the _finte_ joined together.”

“It was,” Esca says after a moment. “Once. But that has not happened again.”

Muirġa begins to speak, then stops. “No,” he says at last. “It has not. But in your _feann_ , your father was the _rí féinne_? Although his years were many?”

“He often was,” Esca says, unsure of Muirġa's aim. “My brothers also: hunting, or raiding. What they did was more akin to yours – ours, here, smaller _fianna_ that were part of the whole.”

“It was many mouths to feed,” Muirġa says, nodding.

“And fields to guard,” Esca says. “We had wolves sometimes, and raiding parties, that came after our animals, and one year the Parisi set fire to our barley fields before the harvest.”

“The People from the Morning [[35]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#note35) grow barley,” Muirġa says, propping himself on one elbow. “This is not something we do. It has made them weaker. They are less nimble; they were forced to compromise with the Romans because they could not move as we do. The Romans offered them coin; they did not care that coin would not fill the bellies of the women and children. Their crops brought a Roman fort closer in to us. That is why we raided these fields, burned their crops, just as we raided the Romans' supplies. This fort is gone now, abandoned. The Romans have drawn back to their wall. This is why we burned their fields.”

“When there is need, perhaps,” Esca says. “But for us there was no need; all the _finte_ around us, all of us, grew enough that there was little to be gained. The Parisi hoped to drive us north; it had little to do with the Romans.”

“Except to weaken your _fine_ , to weaken theirs, to weaken the ties between you,” Muirġa says, leaning up over Esca, his words falling over themselves in his haste to be heard. “This is how the Romans defeat us. They divide us, they separate us, and we quarrel amongst ourselves, paying little attention to them as they creep from shadow to shadow, like beetles, and then suddenly there are so many it is impossible to stamp them out.”

“I see the truth in your words,” Esca says. “I see it. But you burnt the crops of the Boresti.”

“We did,” Muirġa says. “It was the best way to get the Romans to leave, and the People from the Morning were already weak, even dying, because the Romans thought coin enough to replace food. There were not enough of us, even together with the Hard People, to fight them, and the Selgovæ were away licking their wounds, afraid another legion would march north to reinforce their fort, or so says Calcach. It was necessary.” [[36]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#note36)

“This weakens the ties also,” Esca says.

“Your heart is soft, my archer,” Muirġa says, and there is no smile on his lips. “I do not expect you to see the necessity; you and your people have suffered from our divisions and from the Romans alike. But if we are to keep our land here free of the Romans, we must sacrifice ourselves and others. For too long we have wandered unseeing, like fish swimming, heedless of the sea-wolf that hunts them. This we must remember; this we must pass on to our children, and to other _finte._ We have lost our own: our _feann_ , when the Roman legion came, counted more deaths than any of the rest. Yet our women are strong and fertile, and they no longer look to other _finte_ to find husbands. The Romans caused this; we bring an end to it.”

Esca swallows. He sees the sense in Muirġa's words, but… “Still… children died.”

“Yes,” Muirġa says. “But I would not change that decision. I would not hesitate.”

Marcus’ words echo in Esca's ears: _Next time, don't hesitate_ , he had said as he strode past Esca to slit the throat of a boy no older than Esca was when his family was murdered.

He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest, heaving a great sigh. Muirġa has the right of it: Esca’s heart is soft. His father could slit his mother's throat, and Muirġa promises to do the same for Esca. But Esca cannot say he could do the same. He could not bring himself to kill the warrior boy, or even the Roman deserter, although he knows either of them would have killed him without a second thought.

“Esca,” Muirġa says quietly, and there is a hand on his face. “I do not–”

“It is well,” Esca says quickly, opening his eyes. “My heart is heavy at the – at the thought of–” He can’t force any more words past his throat; it has closed up. “It is well,” he repeats, when he can. “It is only that I have had enough of death.”

Nor is it over: his task suddenly looms impossibly large. He has found the Eagle, but Marcus will not leave it in the hands of the Seal People. They are likely to die at any point, and, what is worse even than death to Esca is that they will die at Muirġa's hands, and Muirġa will know only of Esca’s betrayal, Esca’s treachery. Muirġa will ascribe no honour to Cunoval’s son.

He is no longer sure whether he himself can discern his path, and if he cannot, how can another? A life-debt to a Roman is no debt at all; this is what Muirġa and his father would say. If Romans understood life-debts, this is what they would tell Marcus, Esca knows that too: they think slaves no better than animals, with no conscience and no morals.

Yet despite this, he and Marcus have the same understanding of honour in one elemental sense. While Marcus thinks Esca a savage, still he lay – often snoring – at Esca's side, trusting that Esca would not kill him in his sleep or desert him once north of the wall. At the same time, Esca knows the only force that drives Marcus forward is his father: his father's lost honour. All else has been burnt out of him. He will slaughter children; he regards them all, even Esca, as those savages who stand between him and the memory of his father and his family’s honour.

“You must guard your heart more closely, _a ṡearc_.” Muirġa's palm is warm on Esca's face; so are his lips, a brief warm press against Esca's mouth. “Where aught is said to trouble your heart, it weighs there and you carry it. I have seen it. Earlier, when we spoke of this eagle: it is in my mind that these words the Roman said to you are in your heart if they are on your tongue.”

“What?” The word escapes, sharper than Esca intended, as he pulls himself up to a sitting position. Muirġa starts back in surprise. “That we are savages?” The word echoes uncomfortably in his mind, too close to the thoughts he has been thinking. “That this – between us, between any, is – is–”

“Rutting,” Muirġa says, sitting back on his haunches, and his face has resumed its expressionless mien.

“No,” Esca says, biting off the word, his temper rising. “These words are not in my heart. I make you my apology, _a Ṁuirġa ṁic Nechtann_ , that I was not clear.” For the first time in many, many days he lets his building rage wash over him and cares nothing for hiding it, despite Muirġa's narrowed eyes, despite the frown that now furrows Muirġa's forehead. “There is nothing I find _savage_ about this, about us, save our enjoyment, which is as it should be, as I knew it could be. More: there is nothing I find civilized about the Romans. They have soft fabrics, warm baths, food and wine sent from Rome. But these things do not make them civilized. They think this is the difference, that these things, that their armies, their kings, make them civilized; but _they_ are the savages. _We_ do not sell children to be used by fat, perfumed men. We do not keep slaves, we do not breed slaves. You have said it: what we call honour, our lives as shield-brothers, they call savage. But to me it is an honour to be called this by those who themselves are savages, yet could not see their reflection even in a still pond.”

“Esca,” Muirġa says, his frown deepening. “I had not thought–”

“I see the truth of your concern, my shield-brother,” Esca says. “It was in part my doing.” His anger has drained out of him, leaving him empty. “It struck me as – I spoke carelessly. My mother said always that I found amusement in a situation where there was none. It is a fault.”

“It is a treasure,” Muirġa says, the scowl gone from his brow, pulling Esca close in. “Since the Romans have come, since their wall has been built, we have lacked joy.” He smooths a gentle thumb across Esca's mouth, following it with his lips. “There is much joy in your heart, my archer. I think it is that which speaks to mine.” He leans in again to brush his lips against Esca's and Esca puts a hand behind his head to pull him in, to open his mouth against Muirġa's.

There is a scuffle of sound and then voices echoing, growing nearer. It must be dawn. Muirġa pulls away from Esca, a wry grin flashing across his face before he schools it to its usual neutral expression, impenetrable and unreadable.

“More ritual?” Esca says. He knows the answer but he wants to see the smile flash in Muirġa's eyes for a few more seconds. He is rewarded: Muirġa grins, lifting one shoulder in an eloquent shrug.

“And a feast. And then sleep.”

The voices are growing louder; there is torchlight dancing on the walls.

“Together?” Esca whispers.

Muirġa looks back at him, seemingly startled by the question. But then he smiles, and this time his smile is intimate. “If you wish. As you wish.”

“What I wish and what may be done here are often entirely different things.” Esca doesn't mean to sound as if he pities himself, and he winces at the sound of his words in his own ears.

“Yes, _a ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa says. “We share a _teg_ ; we share the sleeping skins when we hunt. If this is what we want. Some do, some do not. You have seen it.”

“I have seen it,” Esca echoes; but Muirġa has not answered the question. It is too late: Nechtann has arrived, flanked by Allidd and Bridei, and Calcach and Áed. Muirġa gets to his feet; Esca scrambles to his feet behind him. Now he knows some of the tensions underlaying this, he sees some resignation, even some disapproval, in Nechtann's eyes. Esca will never have the grace, the presence, of Muirġa, raised from birth to be his father's heir. His brother Cartival had it, and Froechan as well, when he chose to. 

“Are you well?” Nechtann is asking Muirġa, who stands straight.

“We are well, Father,” Muirġa says.

“Have you faced the fire, the sun, and the sea?” Bridei asks.

“We have faced all three.”

“Has the ritual been completed?” Allidd asks, and Esca senses that his question is phrased with more kindness than either Nechtann's or Bridei's would have been.

“It has.”

“Are the gods satisfied? In full?” Bridei asks Muirġa, his eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” Muirġa says, and Esca has to fight to keep his face solemn: he knew Bridei would demand numbers.

“ _Is maol ghualainn gan deartháir [[37]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#note37).”_ Nechtann raises both his hands, palms skyward. “Let you both go forth side by side, at each other's shoulders. Henceforth you are kin, _a Esca ṁic Chunoval uí Neṁnainn_. Allidd and Muirġa will teach you your rights and your responsibilities. At the full moon, at the fires of Lugos, you will enter our _feann,_ becoming a warrior of the Seal People. You will join Úlla on the strand, and our _teglach_ and our _fine_ will welcome your son at the fires of Beltainne.”

Esca has to bite the inside of his lip so that his mouth won't even think of trembling in a smile, although he wants desperately to ask what will happen if Úlla has a daughter. They all seem so certain, even Muirġa, although there are many women and girls in the _fine_. The Romans value sons much more highly than daughters, Esca knows; had Girsa's child been a girl, their master might have chosen to expose her, or so the cook had said. It was why Romans had to look outside their land for wives. Marcus’ uncle had also spoken of this, in passing, and Esca had pricked up his ears, like a hound, listening for more. Not wanting girl children made little sense among a people as rich in food as the Romans. But the conversation had moved along, and Esca had heard no more. Among the Brigantes, daughters were welcomed as well as sons, and so it was also, to Esca’s knowledge, among other _finte_ the Brigantes celebrated with, traded with, and even fought with.

“I thank you for this honour,” he says, once he is certain he can keep himself composed. Clearly they are all waiting for a response from him. “My heart hunted for freedom, yet instead it found a home.” He cannot help a glance at Muirġa as he says it, and he feels his face heat, but he looks back at Nechtann, meeting his eyes squarely. Next to him, Bridei grunts, his suspicion barely hidden. “I am honoured to join Úlla on the strand, just as I am honoured to join the _feann_.”

“We are one,” Muirġa says next to him, gripping Esca's fingers in his own. “Our _teglach_ welcomes this day a man of courage and honour.”

Nechtann stares at Muirġa for a long moment, looking down at his hand entwined with Esca's before looking back up at his son. He opens his mouth to speak, but Muirġa holds up his free hand. “Yes,” he says in answer to his father's unspoken words. “There is no need to speak of it further.”

“Come,” Allidd says, putting a hand on Nechtann's shoulder. “The _fine_ awaits. Let us feast.” He looks back at Muirġa. “Your sea-brothers have found much game, and your sisters have laboured into the night to prepare it.”

Nechtann turns on his heel and stalks away. He is trailed by Bridei and Allidd. Esca looks down at himself and Muirġa. They are still naked; shiny patches glisten on Muirġa's chest and Esca is sure his looks the same. “Is it well?”

Muirġa looks past Esca at the entrance, then meets his eyes. “The gods are satisfied. Nechtann must be also.”

“He thought we would fail,” Esca says.

“There are some who said you would lack the courage to go through with it,” Muirġa says. “Some even who said I could not complete our task.” He laughs, scorn laced throughout the sound. “It matters not; but if the gods had not been satisfied, he could have forbidden Úlla the strand without losing face.”

“What of you?” Esca says, his voice low. “What of your face, and the _feann_?”

“I say who joins the _feann_ ,” Muirġa says. “I am the _rí féinne_. That was never the question. Nor was that his concern in any case.”

“Only Úlla?”

Muirġa laughs, and now the scorn is overlaid with bitterness. “Only the _teglach_ , my archer. Why do you think Uaimh avoids the strand? Why do you think my son–” [[38]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#note38) He stops abruptly, his lips pressed tight together. “It is no matter, _a chroí_. [[39]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#note39) Let us see what our brothers and sisters have prepared for us.” Keeping hold of Esca's hand, he strides towards the entrance where his father and the others have disappeared. Esca allows himself to be led; if Muirġa is not concerned by his appearance, neither will Esca be. Suddenly Muirġa stops short. “The grandmother!" He makes a wordless sound of frustration and hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I would have liked to have seen his face,” he growls, almost under his breath.

There is a scuffle at the entrance and a clatter of spears. Úlla appears, carrying a bundle, flanked by Calcach and Áed. “My brother! Come and eat!" Her excitement is clear, even across the space that separates them. Muirġa smiles, his face softening, as he crosses the sand to her, keeping close hold of Esca. “I thank you,” Úlla says to him when they reach her. Áed catches Esca's eye and winks at him.

“It was no hardship,” Muirġa says, and behind her Calcach smirks.

Úlla grins too, and holds out the bundle. “We have also prepared your clothes.” She glances at Esca and then drops her eyes, and he sees her glance down his body before she looks back at her brother. There is a small, private smile playing about her mouth that makes Esca feel that she has not found him wanting. And after this night, after all this, it would be sad if that were the case. Esca feels weary all at once. He is not even hungry, just desperately tired. He would like to be alone, to sleep and to think, but he knows that time is still far off.

“All right, sister,” Áed says. “Let us leave them to dress. It is a surprise Nechtann allowed you this.”

Úlla is serious all at once. “Indeed,” she says, and she sounds genuinely humble. “I wanted to thank you in private,” she says quietly. “Thank you, also, my brothers, for bringing me here.” She hands the bundle to Muirġa, then looks past him. “Shall I put the fire out?” She doesn't wait for an answer, but goes up the narrow rock pathway.

“Sister!" Muirġa says, handing the bundle to Esca and going after her. Calcach joins him; Áed shrugs at Esca's look of enquiry.

“This is our space, for the men of the _fine_ ,” Áed says to Esca. “She is always curious.” He raises his voice, adding his entreaties to the other two. “Come, Úlla. We do not go to the women's cave.”

Esca smiles; he feels a fondness for her kindle in his heart, above that engendered by her relationship to Muirġa. Like him, she is the youngest; and she seems to have some mischief in her that speaks to Esca.

Úlla has gathered the skins and kicked sand onto the fire. She twists out of Muirġa’s grasp and giggles, running around the rock to evade him. He and Calcach are two steps behind her when she stops short and they both pile into her. She drops the skins and points across the water with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. Esca and Áed look at each other and go to join them.

"Is that the grandmother?” Úlla whispers, and Esca is close enough now to see that her eyes are wide. Across the water, the large seal has returned; she and the smaller seal are resting, eyes closed, where they were earlier.

“Yes!" Muirġa whispers. “Yes. She was here earlier.” His voice turns triumphant. “She has shown her approval of Esca.” He pulls Esca forward, and the larger seal raises her head and looks across the water at them.

They all stare, spellbound. Esca lifts his hand in greeting, then realises what he's doing and scrubs his hand through his hair, embarrassed, and the seal snorts, then puts her head back down.

“I have seen it!” Calcach whispers, and Áed nods emphatically. “What said Nechtann?”

“I have not told him yet,” Muirġa whispers in return.

“Nechtann!” Áed says, clapping Calcach on the shoulder. “What of Bridei, my brother? What will he say?”

“We will learn,” Muirġa says, grimly pleased. “Come, Úlla. Come away. You have had this honour. This is enough. You must respect the _fine_.”

Úlla gathers the skins up again and allows Calcach to bundle her out of the cave. She does not look back, and Esca's respect for her increases. When he turns back to Muirġa, he realises he is far behind; Muirġa is almost dressed, pulling a shirt over his head, his loincloth and apron already in place and his leggings tied. Esca pulls his trousers on hastily, trying to catch up, while Áed shakes out his shirt and holds it ready for him. “Are you well in truth?” Áed says over Esca's head, while Esca kneels to fasten the ties at his ankles. “And you, my brother?”

Muirġa glances at Esca and smiles; Esca smiles back. “Yes,” Muirġa says. “We are well.”

“My father wanted numbers,” Calcach says with a chuckle.

Esca stands, unable to suppress his grin. “I thought that too.”

“The gods are pleased,” Muirġa says. “They were pleased four times.” He grips Esca by the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together for a moment.

“Five,” Esca murmurs, and Muirġa's grip slackens as his hand slips down to Esca's shoulder. Esca can almost hear him casting his mind back. Then he touches two fingers to Esca's lips.

“Five,” he says, his voice soft. “That was the first.”

Calcach elbows Áed. “We should ask after the health of their stones!" This makes Áed grin. Esca, too, smiles under the touch of Muirġa's fingers, then kisses them. Muirġa brings his fingers to his own lips, kissing the place where Esca's mouth had touched.

“I believe there will be a small hunting party in our future,” Calcach says to Áed, and thumps Muirġa on the back.

Áed squeezes Esca's shoulder. “First the feast,” he says. “Perhaps some rest.” He turns to look back over his shoulder, at the two seals resting, and Muirġa follows his gaze, along with Esca and Calcach. They are both watching, seemingly curious. There is a snort and a splash from the direction of the sea entrance and all of them, seals and men alike, look over to see another seal, head bobbing uncertainly in the water. Esca hears indrawn breaths around him, but the seal’s eyes are fixed on Esca’s own and Esca finds he can’t look away.

Then the grandmother snorts, the noise echoing loud in the cave, and the lone seal shakes his head, diving under the water. He does not resurface where they can see him.

“Perhaps he followed the others in,” Calcach says. Muirġa shrugs a shoulder, but Áed, like Esca, looks after the lone seal and he and Áed are tardy in catching Calcach and Muirġa up as they head to the cave’s entrance.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

35. Daoine ón bhore - the people from the morning (the Boresti). “Bore” means morning or dawn; it is conceivable the Romans who named the Boresti drew upon this cognate to describe the people who inhabited the peninsula northeast of the Firth of Moray, since their territory stretched all the way to the eastern coast. They were able to cultivate barley, that much we know. However, Muirġa burning their crops is entirely my own invention.   
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#orig_35) to the story.

36. People of hardship, the Hard People - the Caledonii. The Caledonii territory ranged along Loch Ness and the other lochs along the rift.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#orig_36) to the story.

37. _Is maol ghualainn gan deartháir_ : Unprotected is the shoulder without a brother.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#orig_37) to the story.

38. Muirġa’s son attends his mother's hearth instead of Nechtann's; Nechtann restricts the _teglach_ to blood members only, in contravention of past practices.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#orig_38) to the story.

39. _A chroí_ (ah chree) is a term of endearment and means 'my heart'.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503460#orig_39) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Taken away to the dark side_  
>  _I wanna be your left hand man_  
>   
>  _Riptide_ , Vance Joy


	7. Breathe out, so I can breathe you in

The morning sun is bright on their faces when they emerge from the cave. The day is clear and windy, and many from the _fine_ await them on the strand. There are two fires, and large baskets of meat waiting. A cheer goes up when they are noticed, and Nechtann, standing across the cove, calls something to them, but his words are carried away by the wind. Esca is past caring. The meat smells delicious, and his stomach rumbles. Calcach and Áed settle them by the nearest fire, where Áed then joins them, and those already sitting crowd around them. Somewhat to Esca's surprise, it is Calcach who serves them. At the other fire, Nechtann and Iuuar are being served by Allidd and Bridei. Bearrach sits, too, by Nechtann’s fire, with her two daughters, but not with Nechtann; and Muirġa’s son seems to be serving them. He is too tired to make sense of it, this _teglach_ hierarchy. He smells something delicious, then focuses to see Muirġa holding up a piece of meat, patiently waiting. He takes it from Muirġa’s fingers, then looks around. Calcach mimes him feeding Muirġa, so Esca takes a piece of meat from the small basket and feeds it to Muirġa. Around the fire, everyone nods and smiles, and then they all begin to eat.

After his first flush of hunger is satisfied, Esca looks around again. He does not see Marcus; the groups around the fire seem to consist mostly of the _fennidi_ , with some women and children. Muirġa's son is sitting behind his grandfather, poking at the sand with a stick. He can feel himself dozing off and he bites his tongue to wake himself. Muirġa is just as tired, after all, but he is smiling and nodding, chatting with those who come up and exchanging comments with Áed and Calcach. Their time in the _borra_ seems very long ago now, and even the memory of the cave is receding quickly. Maróg is kind enough to sit by Esca and talk with him for a time, telling him of their winter plans. He is joined by Grusach after a little while, but Grusach, of the sour face, makes no attempt to join the conversation.

Finally Nechtann gets to his feet and begins to make his way over to their fire, accompanied by Iuuar. Esca hopes that this means the ceremony is almost over: he will sleepwalk to the _teg_. Just as Nechtann approaches them, Muirġa mentions the grandmother to those sitting around them, including Grusach and Maróg, as if he had not noticed the approach of his father. Nechtann stops dead, stock still, as the import of Muirġa's words filter through.

“The grandmother?” he says sharply, loud enough that it draws the attention of more of the _fine_. Across from him, Bridei and Allidd raise their heads, then slowly get to their feet, Iuuar only a few steps behind. “What is this?”

Muirġa's pretense of surprise at seeing his father is subtle. Esca drops his chin to his chest so no one will see his smile. Muirġa waits long enough for Bridei to be in earshot before he also gets to his feet, bowing his head deferentially. “The grandmother was there, in the cave, when we arrived,” he says, his voice clear enough to be heard over the waves. “We used the sea entrance.”

“She has not been in the cave of late,” Bridei says, glaring, for some reason, at Esca.

“It was she,” Muirġa says. “She had a smaller one with her.”

“That is she,” Nechtann says, sounding as if he is reluctant to confirm. “She has had a little one with her this summer.”

“We paid her our respects,” Muirġa goes on. “She entered the water, to depart, we thought, and leave us to our ritual. Instead she swam up to this one –” he nods at Esca, “–and then around him, and touched his leg. Then she went away with the other one.”

Bridei mutters something; Esca is certain he is disputing Muirġa's account under his breath.

“When we went to dress them, she was again there,” Calcach says, nodding. “When Esca was brought forward, she raised her head and greeted him.”

Áed opens his mouth as if to add something, but then closes it again, and Esca sees him glance at Muirġa, then over at the group of elders.

Nechtann's lips are pressed together tightly, so thin they are almost invisible. Behind him, Bridei looks no more pleased. Allidd and Iuuar, however, are both smiling, and Allidd claps Nechtann on the shoulder. “Now you see the wisdom of your decision, _a rí_ , _”_ he says, his voice as clear as Muirġa's. “The grandmother approves!”

As a face-saving measure, Esca can’t fault it. Nechtann has perforce to smile, and a ragged cheer goes up from those listening intently. Esca sees Muirġa and Áed exchange a look of satisfaction as they raise their voices to concur. Maróg cheers along with them; but Grusach remains silent, looking at Muirġa from under his eyebrows. Úlla catches Esca's eye from beyond the second fire and they smile at each other. He remembers her awe and tries to capture it in his own heart before he remembers, again, that he doesn't have to; he won't be staying.

“You should rest now,” Iuuar says to them both, and the smile that lingers on his face is one that Esca knows is a very rare occurrence: among the _fennidi_ , he has already learned that Bridei is largely unpopular, that Allidd has a reputation for being kind, and that Iuuar is granted a mysterious sort of respect, despite his remoteness, that neither Bridei nor Allidd commands. Esca has noticed his opinion is invoked, much more often than Nechtann’s, as the final word among the _fennidi_ to settle some disputes. “This bodes well for the _fine_. The gods are pleased. Well done, _a mhic_.”

Áed and Calcach lead them to a small _teg_ in near silence. There is a fire burning, and some mead waiting, but Esca has barely taken a swallow before his eyes are drooping shut. “Come,” he says to Muirġa, his voice rough and slurred. He curls up in the skins nearest the door and the last thing he feels is Muirġa joining him.

Esca wakes before Muirġa this time, and spends a few moments looking at him. He is still unpainted, and his hair is still loose and unbraided. His sleep is peaceful, and so is his face. Esca leans in to press his lips at the corner of his mouth, then sits up and stretches. There is a pot of water inside the door for the drain, but Esca goes outside to empty his bladder.

There are two _fennidi_ sitting a fair distance away; one raises his spear in acknowledgement. Esca raises a hand, then goes to the rocks, downstream near the shore. He has still not seen Marcus. But he knows if anything had changed, he would have been told. He wishes fiercely he could have an honest conversation with him, in private, even while he knows it is ill-advised on many levels. He is losing himself; Marcus, at least, knows who he is and what his purpose is.

When he returns to the _teg_ , Muirġa sleeps still, so Esca joins him on the skins, linking his fingers behind his head and staring at the roof of the _teg_. As far as he knows, they have nowhere to be; he must rely on Muirġa to guide him in this. Muirġa, and Allidd; he was relieved to hear it was those two who were to instruct him in his duties to the _teglach_. But Allidd has also been nowhere to be seen. Finally he has peace, and time to think, and even time to sleep, yet he cannot. His thoughts whirl around and around, like a pup chasing its tail. He has fallen face first into Tæsgali politics, and he has only the briefest background, and his own intuition, to guide him. It is just as well that he must leave, he thinks wryly; navigating these tensions is almost as nerve wracking as navigating his own plans and deceptions. But that is a coward's excuse. If he were able to stay, he would; soothing his conscience with these thoughts is a sign only that he is in the wrong.

Which he is. Now he knows where the eagle is. Now he knows how to reach it. Next must come the plan to abscond with it: the eagle, Marcus, himself, and the two horses, which are their only chance to outrun the _feann_. And somehow he must do that under the watchful eye of Muirġa, the _fennidi_ , and, of course, Nechtann and Bridei, who remain both suspicious and, perhaps, actively hostile. He wonders idly if it is even possible to find out what Muirġa thinks of Bridei. It is nigh impossible to get Muirġa to speak honestly of his father or, rather, his thoughts where they may differ from his father's. That same restraint seems to encompass Muirġa’s views on Bridei, yet clearly it is not to spare Calcach's feelings regarding his father that Muirġa holds his tongue, since Calcach seems to be of the same mind as Muirġa regarding the _feann_ and the _teglach_ and even Esca's role in Muirġa's plans.

Muirġa holds himself to a code of conduct Esca knows Cunoval would find admirable. Nechtann is his father, and their king, and their druid, and Muirġa will not let a criticism pass his lips, even to those he is closest to: the sea-brothers who are his kin. It is beyond Esca's comprehension: Muirġa not only took a life-debt for Esca, but his father demanded it of him. It is impossible for Esca to give Nechtann any regard, now that he has this knowledge, and yet he knows Enabarr would tell him he must respect Muirġa’s feelings in this matter, although he can't begin to understand how Muirġa can accept this as he does. He wants to rage at Nechtann, at Bridei; he wants to beg Allidd for understanding, to ask Iuuar how he could let any of this happen. He understands now the mutterings, the tension, the comings and goings of the past few days. He sensed all of it, though he knew none of it; and it was more serious than he could have imagined. Muirġa has put his life on the line for Esca. And Esca has two life-debts now, for it is beyond possibility that he will let Muirġa take responsibility for a treachery that existed long before Muirġa ever set eyes on Esca.

So: the eagle. The escape. Under the nose of the _fennidi_ ; under the nose of his shield-brother. The horses will aid this; at least he has them. Now, however, he must not only return Marcus to Rome, or at least to the wall; he must do it quickly enough that he can return to Muirġa before Muirġa is put to death – by his _father_ , and Esca lets his anger surge at that thought – for Esca's treachery. There is a lump in his throat as he finally encompasses the full meaning of these twin, yet competing, life-debts: it is not the loss of his life so much as the loss of this future he has had a glimpse of, one where his heart had found a home, one that was tinged with the golden glow of love and honour and courage, not the mere metal the Romans value above all else.

He gulps several more times, trying to swallow that hard lump in his throat. He wonders for a moment how he came to be here, and then tells himself sternly to stop. He has no time for self-pity. He will honour the name of Cunoval. There are no gods to smile or frown upon him; he will live and die by his wits, his courage, and his honour. That has been enough up until now. It will be enough to finish his _geallta_. 1

Next to him, Muirġa sighs and rolls over, flinging an arm across Esca. Even in sleep, he already assumes Esca's presence; this thought swells the lump in Esca's throat and he has to gasp, reduced to shallow breaths, unable to fill his lungs. His rasping breath sounds harsh, loud in the small _teg_ , but Muirġa does not wake, only murmurs something and pulls Esca close. His arms are strong and Esca concentrates on the warmth of them, the feel of them, trying to steady his racing heart, trying to breathe. Muirġa nuzzles his face against the back of Esca's neck. His breath against Esca's skin, warm and cool by turns, finally gives Esca a focus, which he knows from long experience is the fastest way to regain his breath. He counts the moments between Muirġa's gentle exhalations, and soon his heart has calmed its running. He pulls Muirġa's hand to his lips and presses a kiss on the back of it, then closes his eyes and and lets his own heartbeat synch to Muirġa's, calm and slow.

The next time he wakes, Muirġa is leaning over him, a frown on his face. Esca hiccoughs, then coughs. When he brings his hand away from his face, it's wet. Muirġa wipes a thumb under his eye, looks at it, then back at Esca. “ _A ṡearc_?” he asks. “You sounded as if you were being strangled.”

“I – I could not get – get my breath,” Esca manages to say.

“Shhh,” Muirġa says, soothing a hand across Esca's chest. He turns away, then is back a moment later with the pot of mead. Esca sits up to take a drink and Muirġa busies himself by thedoor for a moment. He returns with a moist cloth and wordlessly offers it to Esca, who takes it and wipes his face.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

“What is your worry?” Muirġa says, leaning in again and taking the cloth from Esca's hand. He presses the cloth to Esca's face, first one cheek, then the other.

“No second thoughts,” Esca says, gripping his wrist. It was the right thing to say. Muirġa's face relaxes, just a fraction, but enough for Esca to see the relief. Muirġa will never ask. He has never had to ask, Esca thinks in a different part of his mind; he is very like Marcus in that way. “I am overtired. I could not sleep.” He lets Muirġa's wrist go, pressing a kiss to the inside of it as he does so.

“I could not wake,” Muirġa says, folding his legs and settling in beside Esca. It is clearly an invitation, but Esca is still gathering his breath and his thoughts. “Take more mead, _a chroí_.”

Esca does, in part to give himself time to collect his thoughts. He must still pick and choose; and he does not see his way clear. There are few things he can be honest about. But there is at least one. Finally he says, “These... tensions. In the _teglach_. In the _fine_. I do not understand them, and I am picking my way through a bog. I fear to set a foot wrong and complicate things still more, especially for you. Especially considering this life-debt.”

At its mention, Muirġa's lips thin and a frown settles on his face again. “I have told you–”

“A _Ṁuirġa_ ,” Esca says, his voice quiet. “To you, with your heart of courage, this seems a small thing. To me, in whose name you did this, it is a frightening thing. It is frightening because your father asked this of you, not that you offered it. That he does not trust me is understandable. That he dislikes me, also. But I am troubled that this falls to you, that I will be watched to see if I set a foot wrong. I will set many feet wrong. I do not know your people. I do not know your customs.”

“You... worry that this is outside your control,” Muirġa says slowly. “Outside yours or mine. Is this so?”

Esca sifts through all possible responses, and settles for the simplest. “Yes.”

Muirġa looks at him for a long moment and then sighs. “It is. My confidence is in you. I also have confidence in my father, in our elders, in my cousins. In the _feann_ , of course _._ Yet it is complicated. My father was not raised to be a warrior. Where Cunoval led your _feann_ , Nechtann cannot. The _fine_ has prospered under my father, under the defeat of the Romans. My father, my kin, are wise. But my father is old. Bridei and Allidd are old, and they none of them know the _feann_. Only Iuuar is – was – a _fenned_. This is a difficult time. Those of us who patrol, those of us who see the Romans moving, we see the need for a strong _feann_. But some do not. They say the Romans have gone back to their wall. Much is the same as it was before they came. They see no reason why the Romans would ever want this land.”

He looks down at his hands, resting on his knees, then back at Esca. “But Nechtann will never redeem my life-debt on a whim, my archer. Set your mind at rest.”

“Ours,” Esca says quietly, and he reaches out a hand to cover one of Muirġa's, where it rests on his knee. “I have much to learn.” He hesitates, and then tries once more. “It is not the life-debt, _a_ _chroí_. It is that the life-debt was asked of you. A father does not treat his son so. Would you treat your son so?”

“If he was foolish enough to agree,” Muirġa says, biting off his words. “Is that what circles in your head?”

But his temper does not deter Esca. “Would you?” he says. “I think not. But here is the thought that rests heavy on my heart – that you could say only yes, when he asked this.”

Muirġa stares at him through narrowed eyes, halfway to speech. Then he gets to his feet and leaves the _teg_ without another word.

Esca looks after him, then falls back on the skins and swears at the roof. There is a pain behind his eyes; he covers them with his arm. He need not worry about setting a foot wrong; he cannot set one right. His mind circles, and although he pulls in other thoughts, trying to distract himself, he knows it is useless. He sets his mind, instead, to thinking how to put this right with Muirġa. He sees, tardily, that he called Muirġa's courage into question, or at least his commitment. But a choice Muirġa made to save face is still one made under duress, and he can see Nechtann, or perhaps Bridei, playing on Muirġa's pride and sense of honour. But this is only an idea in his head, not enough even that he could ascribe it to his intuition. It may be simply that he does not trust Nechtann, nor does Nechtann trust him.

And once again he is drawn up short, a cold chill running down his spine.

For Nechtann should not trust him.

Yet if Nechtann does not trust him – setting aside for the moment that he is right not to, after all – then his demand of a life-debt could be more sinister than Esca wants to believe. As Muirġa's father, he ought to want to keep Muirġa safe, to protect him from Esca. Demanding a life-debt is the opposite of safe, if Esca truly cannot be trusted. He wonders if Bridei is the _tanist_ in truth, in the sense the Brigantes would use it. Does he take over the kingship? Does Calcach, after that?He wonders if Bridei spoke words in Nechtann's ear, if he is the spider in the midst of the web. Or is it Nechtann himself? Nechtann does not seem so easily manipulated, but what does Esca know of any of them, after all?2

He spends a few more moments tossing and turning, his thoughts chasing each other like hounds after rabbits, before he decides it is a fruitless endeavor. He leaves the _teg_ , hoping to see Muirġa but knowing he will not. He has too much pride, and too little, to go seeking after Muirġa. He sees a _fenned_ in the distance, sitting on a rock. He raises a hand and the _fenned_ raises his own in acknowledgement. Then he makes his way down to the shore, where he indulges in a quick swim, and walks to the west for a time, further than he has been before, looking through the rocks and the sand and the debris in the tide marks, trying to think of nothing. He finds a few small pieces of amber, worn round and smooth, and he tucks them inside his pouch; if he can find someone who has a bore, they would make beads for Muirġa's plaits.

Further still, he finds a skeleton of an animal, bleached white by the sun, its bones tumbled about. He imagines it is a sea creature; it is not a deer or a boar or any such animal he knows. He crouches beside it, poking idly at the bones: here are rib bones, there is a shoulder bone. The shoulder bone fits into his hand and he looks more closely at it, an image taking shape in his mind. He sees it would make a fine comb if he thins the flat edge of it, where a lip curves to the inside, and he wonders if Úlla would like it. Among his people, they often carved the horns of the cattle, but he has also carved bone before; he carved the needles that his uncle used to place the pigment for his _teglach_ markings.

He looks around the beach; there is a tree washed up, and some soft sand. Although the sun is high, the tree trunk is tall enough for a shadow, so Esca takes up his bone and removes himself to the shade, where he works for some time, carving a comb for Úlla. Once he has thinned the lip of the flat edge, the teeth are simple enough, though he lacks the rasp his uncle had to space them. He knows he can use sharkskin or sand to smooth the edges, so he smooths the teeth as much as he can with his knife and then starts a design in the top. He remembers the markings on his mother's arm, those he told Muirġa about, and he sees that the top arch of the bone is the right shape to have three wave crests above and five below.

As he carves, he tries, without much success, not to think about what his mother would think of all this; if it was real, if he could stay, she would be happy, he thinks, that Úlla is clever, and sweet, and that she wants to bear his child. She would be happy for a grandchild, too; she had hoped for several years that Cartival would settle down. He finally had, the Beltainne before the Romans came. But there had been no child, not yet, not at the end.

Where he is resting, the sand is very fine, so Esca empties his pouch of the beads and his flint and iron, and pours sand into it. The pouch is leather and so will withstand enough polishing for this small comb. He puts the comb in and closes it, then sits back against the bank and rubs the comb inside the pouch steadily, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun starts its journey down the other side of the sky. After a time he feels his eyelids drooping, so he puts his knife close to hand and curls himself up in the shade.

When he opens his eyes again, he is disoriented for the first two breaths he takes, for in front of his eyes are a man's legs, in spotted leggings. He looks up, and up, and still more, until he sees Muirġa looking down at him, his face expressionless, his skin covered once again in paint, his hair braided and fastened and tied. Esca's heart begins to race.

“What are you doing?” Muirġa says.

Esca swallows and scrabbles for purchase, twisting his body to get to his knees. “I was carving,” he says, feeling about him for the pouch. “Then I slept.”

“The _fennidi_ lost you,” Muirġa says, and Esca hears an undertone of worry.

“I came further than I thought,” he says carefully. “I hoped to find you but did not want to ask, in case you did not want to be found.” He gets slowly to his feet so he can look Muirġa in the eye. “I owe you an apology, my brother. I understood too late, after the words had left my mouth, that I was calling you a coward. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am sorry. I do not think you a coward, and I understand why you took this life-debt. I am not questioning your judgment in this matter.” He does not add what he knows now is a lost cause: it is Nechtann's judgment he questions, not Muirġa's; for there is no other way, Muirġa being Muirġa, that these events could have gone.

Muirġa's brow, that had been lowered like a thundercloud, suddenly smooths. “That is a handsome apology, _a_ _chroí_ ,” he says, putting his hand on Esca's face, brushing his thumb across Esca's mouth. “It is not necessary. I know you do not think me a coward. I know your heart is heavy with concern for my well-being. But you are a man of much courage and more honour, that you do not make these excuses to me. I would take this life-debt thrice over, now that I know the measure of the man you are, to add you to our _teglach_.”

The kiss that follows reminds Esca of their first kiss, and their second; there is still paint on Muirġa's lips, freshly dried, and yet Muirġa tastes sweet and warm underneath it. Esca's heart lifts suddenly, as light as a feather floating on the wind. He knows now he cares more for Muirġa's opinion, also, than he was willing to admit to himself. It complicates things but it also makes his way clearer. He knows the shape of his future, and all that is left is to fit himself to it as time and circumstances permit. So he lets himself fall into Muirġa's kiss, even as it deepens to the passion that seems to simmer just below the surface whenever the two of them are together now.

“ _A chroí_ ,” Muirġa says against his mouth, his voice deeper than just a moment before. “The _fennidi_ wait.”

Esca lets his lips linger a moment longer before loosing his hold on Muirġa's shoulder. “I cannot apologise for this,” he says, close against Muirġa's mouth.

“Nor should you,” Muirġa says, and there is a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “But I was not patient with my _feann_ for losing you. They walk in some fear now.”

“Then let us relieve their minds.” Esca drops to his knees again to retrieve the amber pieces and his flint and iron. He pours the sand from the bag and puts the rest in it, while Muirġa watches. Then he looks up at Muirġa, who moves a step closer and then puts a hand on Esca's head. He wets his lips and Muirġa draws his breath in. This close, Esca can smell Muirġa's arousal, feel the heat from it, see the bulge beneath Muirġa's clothing.

“Soon?” he says, and he leans forward just enough to touch his mouth to the mound between Muirġa's legs.

“Now,” Muirġa says, his voice a husk only, his other hand pushing his loincloth out of the way. Esca drops the bag in the sand, using both hands to help Muirġa free himself, nuzzling and licking as soon as the flesh is bared to him. He slips a hand beneath, to find Muirġa's stones, his fingertips finding the thicket of hair behind them, and Muirġa gasps and unfolds all his length into Esca's mouth at once. They find a rhythm quickly; Esca matches Muirġa stroke for stroke, both tongue and hand. Muirġa's rhythm stutters and Esca moans around him, then tightens his grip on the base of Muirġa's spear. He is rewarded in the next moment as Muirġa's spear swells in his grip and then his release begins. Esca swallows each spurt of seed, glorying in the taste and feel of Muirġa spilling in his mouth once more. He aches between his own legs, aches for just a touch, but he can't bring himself to let Muirġa go, not until he has spent, until he has softened in Esca's mouth, not until he shudders from his feet all the way up his body as Esca rolls his tongue around Muirġa's softened flesh.

Muirġa shudders once more, then slides to his own knees to pull Esca close, to bring their mouths together, almost delicately at first, then tasting his seed on Esca's tongue. Esca moans as Muirġa's hand finds his arrow and he pushes into Muirġa's grip. Muirġa fumbles and Esca almost falls. Then he is falling as Muirġa gives way beneath him, both of them in the sand, Esca atop Muirġa, thrusting into Muirġa's hand and against his body. Finally Muirġa finds the length of him even through his clothes and tightens his grip so Esca has something to push against. It doesn't take long before he feels his own stones tighten, his stomach clenching, and then his arrow is spilling into Muirġa's grip while Esca buries his face in Muirġa's throat to stifle the sounds he can't hold back. They rest then, for a time, until their breathing steadies and their hearts slow their racing. Muirġa pulls Esca's mouth up to his own again and they kiss, gentler now.

“It has been many years,” Muirġa says, and then stops.

“Many years,” Esca echoes, his eyes closed, his mind dancing, his heart singing.

“Many years since a man spent in me,” Muirġa whispers.

“Oh,” Esca says; it is all he can think to say. That, until this morning, he himself never spent inside a man seems self-evident, yet he knows it is not. He draws breath to say–

There is a hoot from afar. Muirġa draws his own breath to hoot back, but chokes instead, and then begins to laugh. Esca laughs too, and thus it is that Áed finds them, still tumbled in the sand, holding each other and laughing helplessly.

“You found him,” is all Áed says, looking down at them from the short bluff, and then he disappears again. Esca finally rolls off Muirġa, letting him put himself away, while he rubs, somewhat ruefully, at the sticky mess between his own legs.

“I desired to taste you,” Muirġa says, solemn all at once. “But there was no time.”

“That seems to be a thread between us,” Esca agrees, keeping his mouth solemn. But he cannot keep his eyes from dancing, that much is clear, from the way Muirġa looks at him, then smiles, reluctant and yet sincere.

“There will be time enough,” he says, almost to himself.

Thus brought back to reality, Esca feels the happiness leave his heart. There will not be time enough. He would spend night after night, and day after day with Muirġa, finding all the different ways to taste and feel him, seeing how quickly and how slowly they could spend in each other. But it will never happen. They will never know more than this, here, now. He grasps Muirġa by the hand as Muirġa gets to one knee, and pulls him in for another kiss, a lingering one. “A _ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa whispers. “Soon. Tonight, yes?”

“Please,” Esca says, and if he is begging, there is no shame in it: they have only this time. “Please.”

“You are able?” Muirġa says quietly.

“Please,” Esca says again. “Yes.”

Muirġa swallows, so loudly Esca can hear it. “Come,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “We hunt. Tonight.”

Esca lets Muirġa pull him to his feet, and when Muirġa leans in once more, Esca stops him with two fingers on his lips. Muirġa presses his lips against Esca's fingers and then takes Esca by the hand. At the top of the bluff, they can see two _fennidi_ who are waiting on the horizon. One raises an arm to wave and Muirġa waves back. He does not seem in a particular hurry to join them but sets a steady pace, a long easy stride that is becoming second nature now to Esca also.

“What were you carving?” Muirġa asks abruptly.

“A comb,” Esca says. “There were some bones, weathering, on the beach.”

“For Úlla?” Muirġa asks, slowing his pace and turning. Esca feels his face heat.

“Yes, if – if it is permitted.”

“It is,” Muirġa says, coming to a full stop. “May I?”

“It is not finished,” Esca says, pulling it from the pouch. “My uncle had a small rasp he used for these spaces–” He is silenced by the look on Muirġa's face as he turns the comb over in his hands. The sand had indeed worked well to smooth it, although, in the light, Esca can see some sharpness where the teeth join the handle.

“This comes from a seal,” Muirġa says. “This is its shoulder bone.” He turns it over once more, tracing the carved waves with a finger.

“I did not know–” Esca begins, his breath catching in his throat: these bones may have been sacred; it may have been why they had been left to weather. But Muirġa is speaking still.

“This was the marking of your mother,” Muirġa says. “The one you told me you remembered.”

“I will never forget it,” Esca says, still more confused, and raw besides. Muirġa remembered; and he is carving the bones of Muirġa's kin.

“This is a thing of beauty,” Muirġa says. “You must not give it to Úlla. She will use it.”

Esca is caught off balance in so many ways it would not surprise him if he looked down to see himself walking on a cloud. “If it – if it pleases you, my shield-brother, it is yours.”

“No,” Muirġa says, still with that curious note in his voice that Esca can't identify. “It is very fitting that the daughter of the sea has a comb from the seals. The grandmother will be pleased. But how you knew... How you came to this...”

Esca shrugs, uncomfortable under Muirġa's praise. “Happenstance. The shape called for the waves.”

“Three waves, and five,” Muirġa says, his voice sounding distant. “Esca, you... you are a mystery. You make me seek out those with whom I prefer not to speak. There is too much here, and I do not know it. I know only that it is important.”

“It is a comb,” Esca says firmly. “For you, or for your sister. It is only a small thing.”

“It is a gift, and it is no smaller than your great heart,” Muirġa says. “My sister will be honoured by such a gift, to be remembered to your mother. Your mother will join with our _teglach_ when you and Úlla have a son. This will please all the ancestors.”

There is a distant shout; only one _fenned_ remains on the horizon now, his arm raised. Muirġa turns his back and pulls Esca into an embrace, his lips soft, no urgency behind their kiss at this moment. It makes Esca smile inside: Muirġa will not be told what to do, or when to do it.

When they reach the _fenned_ who waits, Esca sees it is Maróg; Áed has gone ahead, no doubt to relieve the mind of the _fenned_ who lost track of Esca. Maróg chats idly with Esca as they make their way back to the dún. Muirġa maintains his silence, for the most part, and when they come upon Áed, Maróg melts away and Áed takes his place, telling Muirġa in a few words where they are hunting.

They return to the small _teg_ , where Esca strips out of his trousers, grimacing, and bundles them to take to the stream to rinse. Someone has brought his things so he roots through his pack, looking for his second pair of trousers, the leather ones. He finds them at the bottom, folded; someone must have cleaned those too. When he emerges from the _teg_ , Muirġa and several others are standing near Nechtann's _teg_ , involved in what looks like a serious conversation, so Esca waves his bundle of clothing in the air and heads to the stream. He is joined only moments later by Maróg, who asks him bluntly what he is doing. When Esca tells him, Maróg stares at him, then takes the trousers from his hand. “Your women will do this for you,” he says. “You have the Roman who will do this for you. You cannot shame the _teglach_ like this.”

Esca has to laugh: he imagines Marcus’ reaction upon being given Esca's clothes to wash. Then he imagines the state of those clothes after Marcus finishes. Maróg stares at him, uncomprehending. “I am sorry,” Esca says, forcing himself to be sober. “I wanted only to rinse these and leave them to dry while the weather permits. I am not cleaning them.”

“The women of your _teglach_ will do that for you,” Maróg says again, but his face relaxes.

“I am not used to having women when I travel,” Esca says, choosing his words carefully; Maróg is clearly an ally of Muirġa’s among the _fennidi_ despite the fact that he is not part of Nechtann's _teglach_. “When it was only the two of us, the Roman and I–”

“He expected you to clean them,” Maróg says.

Esca shrugs. “He was a soldier,” he says. “There was much he did for himself. Just as the _fennidi_ do for themselves, when they are hunting.”

Maróg opens his mouth, then shuts it again, looking much struck. “But we are in the dún now,” he says finally.

Esca nods, suppressing a sigh. “This is true. I did not seek to shame the _teglach_.”

“No, brother, I know,” Maróg says, patting Esca's shoulder. “It is why I thought to tell you. I will take these to Úlla for you.”

“No!" Esca says, feeling the heat rise in his face. “Please!" He holds his hand out. “It will take but a moment.”

Maróg narrows his eyes and then looks down at the trousers in his hands. “Uaimh?” he says, quieter now.

“Not – not one of Muirġa’s sisters,” Esca says.

Maróg nods; Esca is certain now he understands. “I will have my woman clean these for you,” he says. “I will bring them back to your _teg_.”

“You are a kind man,” Esca says, gripping his shoulder for a moment and squeezing. “Thank you.”

Maróg looks startled. “It is an honour to aid you.”

“It is kind of you,” Esca says. “Kind of you to think of me, and what I do not know, and of Muirġa’s honour. And to spare me discomfort.” He feels another wave of heat wash over his face. “I did not intend...”

“Our _flaith_ is a strong man,” Maróg says, and finally he smiles. “Not a man among the _fennidi_ would think less of you for this. But you are right: this is not for his sisters’ eyes.” He nods and at last Esca senses approval. He doesn’t allow the relief to show on his face, but schools his expression to reflect his gratitude, which truly is heartfelt. “Come you with me, to my _teg_ , and meet my wife. She will have some food for you, if you are hungry.”

So Esca follows Maróg, meekly enough, although when he meets Muirġa's eyes over Áed’s head, he quirks a tiny grin at him. Muirġa raises his chin a fraction but otherwise does not seem to be paying attention to anything but the conversation in front of him.

Maróg's woman has dark hair and a kind face. A child clings to her dress until Maróg sits down by the hearth with Esca; then the child climbs on Maróg's back and Maróg pulls him over his shoulder and into his lap, tickling him. His woman brings them mead in bone cups and serves them some stew in small wooden bowls. Maróg's son sits on his lap and eats with his father. There is a shadow in the entrance and they look up to see Muirġa's son, who has eyes only for Esca.

“Come in, little seal,” says the woman. “Are you hungry?”

“I am not, thank you,” he says gravely, but he sits next to Esca. “Are you well?” he says quietly.

“I am, thank you,” Esca says. “It is good to see you again.”

This is rewarded with a smile, and Esca remembers of a sudden that he wants to learn to shoot with a bow, and his heart throbs. But Muirġa's son is speaking to Maróg:“Maróg, my uncle. They say the grandmother has been seen.”

“You should ask your father to tell you of this,” Maróg says.

“But Esca is here.”

“You speak truth,” Maróg says after a moment. “Very well. The grandmother has been seen, in the cave. She greeted this one. She approves of your father's choice.”

“So do – so should everyone.”

“Again you speak truth,” Maróg says. “Your father has a fine son.”

“Shhhh,” says the woman, from behind him.

“It is well,” the boy says. “No one here will say a word.”

Maróg looks at Esca and to Esca's surprise, he looks worried. “I will say nothing to anyone,” Esca says, alarmed. “Muirġa has a fine son. This is not a secret.”

“These are words not to be spoken in the hearing of the elders,” Maróg's woman says.

“Then I will not,” Esca says. “Thank you for sharing your food.” He waits, hoping she will be given a name, but Maróg nods and she only smiles. In the next moment, Esca hears his name being called, and then Muirġa is in the doorway of the _teg_. There is no smile on his face, but his eyes are dancing. When they fall on his son, seated by Esca, Esca sees him begin to smile before it disappears.

“Maróg, my brother,” he says. “You honour my shield-brother by your hospitality.”

Maróg blossoms under this praise. His smile is enough to light all the dim recesses of his _teg_. He sets his son on his feet and stands quickly. “The honour is ours.”

"Gortnait,” Muirġa says, nodding to Maróg's woman. “I would share some of your food also.”

“Yes,” she says, almost gasping, and Maróg goes to aid her, fetching Muirġa his own cup of mead while she ladles stew into another bowl. Muirġa sits down by his son and looks across the hearth at Maróg's son, who stands staring, a finger in his mouth.

“Your son is strong and healthy,” Muirġa says. “Maróg, have you told these here of our visit from the grandmother?”

“The little seal was just asking,” Maróg says. “Would you tell him?”

So Muirġa tells a small tale, in between bites of his food. Esca watches him tell it, notes the omissions, the pauses, the emphases he puts on certain words, casually, but Esca knows some of it is calculated. There is a struggle for power that he can see, now, and Muirġa is using the seal in the cave to serve his ends. Gortnait hangs on every word; so too does Muirġa's son. No doubt Gortnait will spread the tale, from the mouth of Muirġa himself, among the other women of the _fine_. Maróg's son, who is too little to truly understand, sits on his father's lap again, leaning back against him, while he watches Muirġa talk. Muirġa's son sits up against Esca, and Esca can feel the excitement vibrating from him.

“I would like to see the grandmother,” he says softly, when his father pauses.

“You will,” Muirġa says. “We will all see more of her after this.” He looks at his son, a rare moment indeed; his smile is proud. “But now I must take this one,” he says to Maróg, nodding at Esca. “My kinsmen wish to hunt.”

Maróg meets Esca's eyes and Esca sees a spark in them. But when he speaks to Muirġa, he is properly sober. “You have brought great honour to our house.”

“Your house has great honour already,” Muirġa says. “Keep your woman happy, Maróg. She cooks well and gives you a healthy son. May you have another next year.”

Muirġa’s son follows them out of Maróg’s _teg_ , clinging to Esca's hand as they cross the dún. “I would like to go with you,” he says quietly.

Muirġa looks over his shoulder. “This is for the men. Another time.”

“I would like it,” the boy says. “I would like to have a shield-brother when I am a man.”

Muirġa does not answer; the boy looks up at Esca. “Perhaps someday,” Esca says. “No one knows what the future holds.”

“Are we Brigantes now?”

Even as Muirġa pauses and turns, Esca is answering: “I am Tæsgali now.”

“But we do not have shield-brothers.”

“Now we do,” Muirġa says firmly. “Brigantes and Tæsgali: we are the same. The people of the sea have spoken it.”

Even Esca gapes, but Muirġa shrugs. “All will know it,” he says, sounding if he is speaking partly to himself. “You may tell it to your mother's _teglach_. I have told it to the _feann_. Go now, little seal. We are leaving.”

When he has left them, after giving a quick tug to Esca's hand, Esca turns to Muirġa: “What says Nechtann to this?”

Muirġa shrugs again. “It matters not. You are one with the _teglach_ now. Soon you will be one with the _feann_. As such, he will have the same authority over you that he has over me. He cannot war without the _feann_. The _fine_ cannot be protected without the _feann_. If we satisfy the honour of the _teglach_ and the _fine_ , that is all that is required.”

“But you already have sea-brothers.”

“We will also have shield-brothers.” Muirġa places a hand on Esca's shoulder. “If I understand it, I have one shield-brother. But I could have many sea-brothers. We have had this, although we had no name for it. Now we do.”

“Why this?”

“It is already a practice among some of us,” Muirġa says. “Now it will have a name. It will not cause outrage. It will ease the minds of those who worry over change. Once they see small changes do not result in disaster, others can follow. As sure as the sun rises, there will be others, whether I think of them, or you, or Calcach, or – or even Maróg. But now is not the time to worry over this. Now we hunt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Breathe out so I can breathe you in_  
>  _Hold you in_  
>  ~ _Everlong_ , Foo Fighters


	8. With our rain-washed histories

As Esca expected, the hunting party is no more than himself, Muirġa, Áed, and Calcach. Áed has no sea-brother; Esca has seen Calcach go into the trees from time to time with other _fennidi_ , but he also spends time with a woman in the dún, when they are there; and, of course, Muirġa has neither a woman nor has he gone into the trees with any since Esca’s arrival. It is clear, therefore, that Calcach and Áed are accompanying them to stand guard, in part, and because they are Muirġa’s – and now Esca’s – kin.

They go south, checking their snares, and track a doe that succumbs to Esca’s second arrow, gutting their kills and hanging the deer from a tree. They roast one of the hares, leaving the others hanging with the deer, and their time around the fire is relaxed. If Esca did not know better, he would say Muirġa had no interest at all in disappearing into the trees, and he is struck anew by the code of self-discipline to which Muirġa hews. They tell stories, and Áed sings a song. Calcach brings up the strand; he is hoping to go, himself, and he and Áed exchange some ribald pleasantries on the joy to be found between the legs of a woman.

Esca remains silent, grateful for the long shadows of the late afternoon sun; although he has spent his seed, often, inside a woman – a girl, at the time – he has had little experience otherwise. What he had seen, growing up, had also consisted mostly of hints of the acts which transpired between shield-brothers, although the last Beltainne before the Romans came to soak their swords in the blood of Esca’s people, he and several others of his age had crept into the fields to spy, as the darkness allowed, on those who lay together in the furrows to bring the seed to life. But they had not seen much: a man atop a woman, or a woman atop a man, murmurs and grunts and cries of pleasure. He and the Carvetii girl, Girsa, had not had much in the way of time such as that. At first, they had been so hurried she was often not even wet. She would bring oil, after that first time; and the smell of it turned Esca’s stomach, because it was the same oil their master used to penetrate him and, no doubt, her.

But as the summer passed, they became more adept; she would be wet, there, and he would spread the wetness so that she felt no pain when he entered. He too would be wet, and hard enough to penetrate as she braced herself or knelt before him, offering herself. He knew she took little pleasure; he felt some guilt that he found release, for he knew enough to know that she ought to find her own. The sounds in the fields at Beltainne had been the mingled cries of men and women, not men alone. But they had little time; to have been discovered would have meant the end of all of it. She made the best of it, Esca knew; he did so himself. One night, soon before she caught, most of the household had gone off to a festival, including their master and Deargan. The cook had gotten drunk with most of those who remained. She had come to him as soon as the moon rose, low and round, and he had spent. They had fallen asleep, then, her hair soft under his chin.

When they woke again, Esca had been hard, and she had crouched over him, as she had that first night. The moon had been high, its bright light streaming through Esca’s small window. He had held himself while she mounted him from above, and when he went to pull his hand away, she had circled his wrist with her own hand, holding him there while she moved atop him, back and forth, up and down, grinding her softness against the hard knuckle of his thumb. He had closed his eyes and let himself thrust up through his own grip and into her warmth and wetness. She had shuddered and gasped and pressed herself down against him. Then she had done it again, and again, her fingers tightening on his wrist. She had moaned, loud enough to wake any who slept nearby. But there were none; and so Esca did not try to silence her. She cried out, grinding herself onto his hardness, onto his fist, and he had felt spasms all around him, like the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek. Then she had rocked back and hooked her ankles behind his hips. He had spent then, finishing inside her with too many spurts to count. She had fallen down onto him, breathing hard, her lips soft against his neck. Before the moon set, they had done it again that same way, and that time the flutters were stronger, almost like a tongue stroking softly along his length. He had spent as much that time as the time before.

She had missed her courses at the dark of the moon next; Esca had always wondered, and hoped, that their son was conceived that night, the night she took as much pleasure as he did in their coupling.

But it leaves him wondering if he can pleasure Úlla; he has little knowledge of any of it, only what Muirġa has taught him. And he senses that is not enough to pleasure a woman, especially a woman who has no knowledge of men. Nor can he ask Muirġa: for the first part, it is Muirġa’s sister; and for the second part, Muirġa has made no secret of the fact that women hold little interest for him. Esca has no doubt Muirġa’s experience has been much the same as Esca’s own: the night spent on the strand, with the mother of Muirġa’s son, seems to be the extent of it. He wishes he could ask Calcach, but there is no way he can think of to bring the subject up without sounding lascivious, or as if he does not think Muirġa is an expert. After what transpired in the _teg_ between them earlier in the day, Muirġa’s pride is of some importance to Esca. He would not willingly insult Muirġa, ever, and he would not, even unknowing, risk insulting him again. And Esca feels sure, despite Muirġa’s honesty, that it would be regarded as an insult, if not by him, then by his kinsmen.

So there is little he can do about it, save remember what he knows, and be gentle as he can. He drains his skin of mead and gets to his feet, clumsy from the mead and from the strain of the night before and the rest of the day, to go into the trees and empty his bladder. Calcach gets to his feet as well and they journey more than a little way into the trees, near a small, rushing stream. They empty their bladders without comment. But as Esca shakes himself off, Calcach, who has already finished, takes Esca’s arm and pulls him towards the stream. “Come,” he says. “Sit with me a while, my brother.”

Esca shrugs a shoulder, putting himself away; but again Calcach stops him. “Wait a while,” he says.

"For what?” Esca says, because while he trusts Calcach, he also has come to know how possessive Muirġa is, in part because he sees it in himself as well, with Muirġa.

“I have some concern,” Calcach says, patting a rock next to where he sits. “I have said it to Muirġa. He does not share it.”

"Yet here we are,” Esca says, taking his place beside Calcach; and Calcach snorts.

"Úlla has urged Nechtann to allow her the strand for several years,” he says. “She is a woman meant to be a mother, she says. Whether that is because of her own mother or because she knows this in her heart, none of us can say. She is a high-hearted woman.” He pauses and then looks Esca in the eye. “Like her brother.”

Esca feels his face heat and is grateful for the shade of the trees, and the cool breeze on his bared flesh.

“I say this so you know she will be satisfied, for when women are satisfied, there are _eonnrónta_ ,” Calcach says, and he puts an arm around Esca’s shoulder and squeezes for a moment. “You have little to fear. You have satisfied her brother.”

Esca chokes; that is not the word he would have used. A moment later, Calcach laughs, full-throated. “Yes,” he says. “That is perhaps an understatement.” He puts a hand on Esca’s thigh. “These are things you cannot discuss with Úlla's brother,” he says. “You can say them to me, if it pleases you.” He moves his hand up Esca’s thigh, and Esca draws back, alarmed.

“No,” Calcach says, patient. “It is not that I desire you, my brother. But the best way to tell you is to show you. Here – “ he pokes a finger at Esca’s stones. “This is where you find a woman's entrance. You know this already?”

“I do,” Esca says, his throat tight, wiling himself not to harden.

"Listen,” Calcach says quietly. “Here, where your spear rises: this is where a woman has her own, a dagger, a tiny one.” He pokes again, not ungently, at the place where Esca’s arrow springs from; and he feels himself begin to stir.

He draws in a breath, and begins to apologise.

“There is no need,” Calcach says. “This is natural. It is the same for a woman, if you touch her. But do not touch her as you would Muirġa, or yourself. That is too much.”

"This is too much,” Esca whispers, afraid his voice will betray him if he tries to speak normally.

“Look,” Calcach says, and he loosens his loincloth, pushing aside the apron. His spear is half hard; he handles it as if it does not even belong to him, and Esca stares. “We touch ourselves thus.” He strokes firmly; his spear hardens even as Esca watches. Then he pulls his hood back, delicately, using only his thumb and forefinger. “As you touch yourself here, like this: this is how you touch a woman there.”

Without thinking, Esca reaches for himself, his thumb and forefinger poised above his own hood. He is gentler with himself there, with only two fingers, than when he grips his shaft and pulls, although until this moment he had not thought about it.

“As you grow wet, so will she.” Calcach strokes himself there, all along his length and back up to the hood again. When he pulls it back it makes a sucking sound that stiffens Esca’s arrow more, and he strokes it to match Calcach’s rhythm. “This is – how it – works for us,” Calcach says, timing his words to his strokes. “It is difficult – difficult to do it wrong.” He grunts, then, twisting his palm over the top of his spear. “What is – what is difficult is – is the _feann_. We spend – oh...” He breathes out, then slows his hand and takes a deep breath, loosening his grip. “We spend the summers hunting. With each other. As our seal brothers do. But then we forget how to treat a woman.”

He begins stroking himself again, harder. “Instead we play at this, around the fires of our camps, and with one another in the trees. This is a wonderful thing. But we are not women. They need–” He swallows a grunt, and Esca watches in fascination as his hand moves faster. “They need a – a gentler touch.”

Then Calcach stops altogether then and presses one fingertip to the moisture collected at the end of his spear. It glistens in the fading light. “Gentle,” he whispers, and he touches his finger there again, and again, tapping lightly. Esca echoes the motion on himself, sending sparks up his spine. “You see?” Calcach breathes. “Gentle.” He pulls his hood back, holding his spear straight. “Work around it,” he says, and with his thumb and forefinger, he works the hood just at the lip that outlines the head. “Sometimes – sometimes there is no – no need to touch it.”

He looks over at Esca, who freezes. But Calcach only grins. “You are supposed to watch, my brother. When we were boys, even before we were men, we had our own _feann_ , just us _.”_

“And you... watched?” Esca breathes, fascinated. He has not seen much; mostly his own, and usually his eyes are shut tight when he brings himself to release.

“We watched, and experimented. We touched...” Calcach reaches over to touch the wet tip of Esca’s arrow with a gentle finger and again Esca feels the sparks flowing up his spine. “We had contests: who could spill the fastest, who could hold out the longest. Who could shoot the farthest. Do the Brigantes not–”

Esca shakes his head; suddenly he is beyond words, his heart in his throat. He was alone much; although there were others his age among his people, Esca was set apart as Cunoval’s youngest son, not old enough to be a boy, or a man, with his brothers and their compatriots, and none of those his own age were comfortable with him. He imagines a young Muirġa, wild and free, his hand moving as fast as it did in the cave, his cousins alongside.

Among the Romans, he had learned, slaves had little choice unless or until they acquired some small status of their own, or the favour of their owners. If they were marked, to tumble in the stable or to share a bed, they did so; if not singled out thus, it was best to avoid any hint of interest, for that was often enough to draw attention. Esca preferred to be alone to bring himself to completion, spending quickly and quietly, especially after he was quit of his first owner. He became skilled at becoming invisible, even in communal quarters. And this invisibility stood him in good stead for much of his time; aside from his first owner, and Girsa of the Carvetii, he was bedded only by the overseer who was beaten and sold for his insolence. The weasel who took his place, like Esca’s first owner, preferred the younger slaves, and Esca was by then too old to catch his eye.

“I could last longer than any,” Muirġa says from behind them, and Esca nearly tumbles off the rock in his surprise. He is embarrassed; he feels hot all over. But Calcach only laughs, stroking himself slowly.

"Often, my brother,” he says. “But you remember how Áed showed us all the way.”

“I do,” Muirġa says, and there is another chuckle from behind them. Áed steps in front of them and surveys Calcach and Esca both, hands on his hips, shaking his head. This makes Calcach laugh again.

“Come, brothers,” he says. “Our own _feann_... let us bring Esca into it.”

Esca begins to rise, words of protest forming. But Muirġa’s hand is on his shoulder, pressing him down; and then Muirġa moves around to his other side, freeing himself from his loincloth, tossing it aside.

“Come,” Muirġa says, but he is not talking to Esca. “Calcach has the right of it.”

Áed seems reluctant, but when Calcach strokes himself again, his hood making the same moist noises as before in the stillness, Áed’s hands go to his own loincloth. Calcach sucks his breath in and strokes himself faster. A movement from Muirġa catches Esca’s eye: he is bared, clad only in his leggings and his shirt, his unpainted flesh contrasting starkly with the leaves beneath him, and his spear is once again long and sharp.

“What shall our contest be tonight, brothers?” Calcach breathes. “Fastest? Farthest?”

“The most,” Muirġa says, and there is a note in his voice that Esca recognizes and thrills to hear. He glances at Muirġa but Muirġa is looking at Calcach, and only the slightest twitch of his mouth shows he is aware of Esca’s attention. “Tell us, my brother, what you and Esca were speaking of.”

“The men of the _feann_ ,” Calcach says quietly, stroking himself. “How we pleasure ourselves and each other, in the summer when we hunt. How we handle our spears... hard...” He pumps his hand up and down several times. “And soft.” He takes his thumb and forefinger, as he showed Esca earlier, and touches the hood, pulling it gently back and forth. “How sometimes we must be gentle.”

Muirġa looks at Esca then, one side of his mouth pulling up quickly in a wry grin. Yet when he turns his attention back to Calcach, his eyes are hooded, and he nods slowly. “Gentle,” he repeats. “Show us.”

"Like this,” Calcach says, his hand moving even more slowly before he stops at the upstroke and dabs his thumb across the tip. “Feel the wet...spread it here. Your hood is soft...let it kiss your spear. Up and down, yes?” He is looking at Esca again and Esca realises he must imitate Calcach, so he does, pinching his hood over the end and using his thumb to rub the loose skin around the wetness there.

"Now hard,” Calcach says, still quietly, but Esca can hear the sounds now of four hands stroking themselves, not just his own. He grunts without meaning to, biting the sound back quickly, but next to him he hears Muirġa draw in his own breath quickly. Now dusk is falling, chasing the rays of the sun from the forest.

“Why we are not doing this by the fire...” Áed mutters, and Esca laughs, breathless, along with Calcach. Even Muirġa snorts.

“Move closer, then,” Calcach says softly. “Feel your heartbeat quicken; feel the pulse in your spear and match its rhythm.” This time the groan that escapes is from Calcach’s mouth, and Esca’s pulse quickens, just as Calcach said, or else now Esca is noticing it, echoing in his ears.

Muirġa is caressing his hood, gently, staring at Esca’s arrow until he sees Esca watching him. Then he meets Esca’s eyes; holding Esca’s gaze, he licks his lips slowly. Esca feels a heady rush of warmth and wetness well up and his hand slips, smearing wetness across his palm. He takes himself in his other hand and raises his palm to his own mouth, licking the smear his arrow left behind. When he looks at Muirġa again, Muirġa’s lower lip is caught in his teeth, his hand moving faster on his arrow, his eyes fixed on Esca.

“The most,” Calcach says, reaching over to tap Esca’s hand gently. “Not the fastest.”

“Their stones are drained,” Áed says, grunting between his words; he too is stroking himself faster now. “It should be a simple matter.”

“Slow,” Calcach says, and this time he covers Esca’s hand with his own, gentling his movements. “Be slow... do not hurry.”

Esca gulps, and swallows, slowing his movements, letting himself be guided by Calcach’s hand over his. To distract himself, he looks at Calcach’s spear. Unlike his, and Muirġa’s, which are much alike, Calcach has a thin spear with a large head; when he draws his hood over it, the edge is distinct.

“Do you want…" Calcach’s grip tightens momentarily on Esca’s hand. “Do you want to touch?”

“Yes...” Esca breathes.

“Gently,” Calcach says, and although Esca’s face feels as if it could spark enough of a fire to warm Áed, he reaches over to touch Calcach’s spear, at the end, tapping it with his forefinger as Calcach had shown him. “Good...” Calcach says. “Show me how you would touch yourself... Then show me the...” There is a hitch in his voice; Esca sees him glance at Muirġa, but then he looks back at Esca. “...the other.” Esca suits his actions to Calcach’s words, stroking the length of him with a firm grip, then touching his hood, rubbing the soft loose skin over and around the plump head.

“No,” Áed says hoarsely, drawing nearer, and Esca can feel the warmth of his body from his nearness; and then his hand is pushing Calcach’s away to take its place on Esca’s arrow. “Around, and around... a delicate touch, as if you are brushing a petal from her skin.” Esca closes his eyes tight, wanting to thrust into Áed’s grip but there is nothing to thrust into, only Áed’s fingertips on his hood, then the bare skin beneath, touching him as lightly as a bird's wing might. “To us... this is not enough,” Áed whispers. “For her... there will be stars.”

Suddenly his touch is gone, all at once, and the heat from his body, leaving a cold shadow looming over Esca. He opens his eyes, bewildered, to see Áed halfway into the trees. Calcach is hard on his heels: “Áed,” he says urgently, a hand on Áed’s shoulder; and then, his voice soft, “Áedhan... brother...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How the heavens they opened up_  
>  _Like arms of dazzling gold_  
>  _With our rain-washed histories_  
>  _We do not need to be told_  
>   
>  ~ _Called Out In The Dark_ , Snow Patrol


	9. So don't teach me a lesson 'cause I've already learned

Then Calcach pushes Áed against a tree, one hand on Áed’s shoulder, his face near to Áed’s. He is saying something; Esca can hear the murmurs, but not make out the words. Calcach puts his arm around Áed’s shoulders, and Esca sees his hand move between Áed’s legs, his own spear abandoned. He stares, confused. He feels a hand on his thigh; Muirġa, too, leaning up, is watching his kinsmen intently. Áed buries his face in Calcach’s nearer shoulder, his fingers gripping Calcach’s other shoulder.

Muirġa’s fingers tighten on Esca’s thigh; he is still on the ground, but he has moved closer; for a brief moment Esca imagines he can feel Muirġa’s breath brushing across the wet head of his arrow. But of course it is only a breeze; he remembers Muirġa’s words, that the _fennidi_ do not commonly kneel for each other, as shield-brothers among the Brigantes do, and take one other in their mouths. He is not sure what to do: Calcach’s head is still bent close to Áed’s, murmuring low and quiet. He looks at Muirġa again, but Muirġa is still staring at Calcach and Áed. Esca feels his arrow begin to soften, and he feels a deep rush of embarrassment. Once again he has forgottenwho he is, and what he is doing. 

Áed lifts his head and says something to Calcach, and even from this distance Esca can sense his withdrawal, can hear the low, hopeless tone of his voice. Then Muirġa’s fingers slide up Esca’s thigh, pausing only to fondle Esca’s stones for a brief moment; and he shoulders himself between Esca’s legs, coming to his knees, lowering his head to meet his hand as he brings Esca’s arrow to his lips.

Esca gasps; his heart stutters to a stop and he suddenly can’t breathe or move or do anything at all. When Muirġa sucks him in, a noisy, wet, sound, time seems to begin again: his heart starts thudding almost painfully in his chest and his arrow stiffens instantly, as if seeking the warmth and wetness of Muirġa’s mouth, and he can’t keep back an exclamation. He senses rather than sees Calcach and Áed lift their heads and stare; he himself doesn’t know what to make of it, only that he wants Muirġa never to stop. 

But stop he does: he lifts his face to Esca’s, his eyes glittering, one hand snaking up to Esca’s neck to pull him down in a lengthy kiss, his other hand still working Esca’s arrow. Esca cups Muirġa’s head in his hands, feeling the paint flake off and the stubble of Muirġa’s shaven scalp beneath, making sounds deep in his throat to match Muirġa’s own as their tongues meet and twine. “A _ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa says against his lips. “Now it is my turn.”

“Your... turn,” Esca echoes mindlessly, capturing his lips again. 

"Now,” Muirġa says. There is the briefest flicker of his eyes in the direction of his kinsmen, and then he lowers his head again, his eyes closing, as he takes Esca in his mouth. Esca remembers they are watching, tries and fails to feel embarrassed, and then forgets in the next moment as Muirġa sucks harder, sliding his fingertips down to Esca’s stones. When next he opens his eyes, Calcach and Áed are kneeling near them, only an arm's length away, Calcach’s arm around Áed’s shoulder, watching Esca and Muirġa, their hands on their spears.

"With the mouth?” Calcach whispers; Muirġa nods, making a hungry sound around Esca’s arrow that makes Esca writhe, and thrust. 

“Do you – do you swallow what he spills?” Áed asks, his voice husky.

Muirġa nods again, repeating the sound, and Esca groans. He feels his stones rising even as Muirġa cups them, working his palm under them. He gasps then, his arrow straining for release. Muirġa makes a sound deep in his throat and sucks harder, moving his mouth up and down, tightening his grip around Esca’s arrow. Esca feels his whole body tighten, arching forward, and then his bliss comes as he spends, spurting into Muirġa’s mouth. Muirġa swallows noisily, sounding almost gleeful, and he keeps Esca’s arrow in his mouth until it is limp, until Esca is twitching, the stimulation of Muirġa’s tongue and hand suddenly far too much. Dazed, he thinks suddenly that that is what Calcach and Áed were trying to tell him: he imagines a gentle touch on his arrow at this moment. And as if Muirġa reads his thoughts, his mouth suddenly gentles, his grip loosening, his tongue barely flickering across the end, cleaning the last of Esca’s seed from his skin. 

There is a sudden groan from beside him; it is Calcach, his hand working furiously at his groin. When Esca reaches for Muirġa again, pulling him up to kiss him, long and deep, Calcach’s noises turn hungry, and Esca sees him cup one hand over the end of his spear. Muirġa turns his face so his cheek rests against Esca’s, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth, and says, “Let us see...”

Áed’s hand stills as he reaches over to steady Calcach. Calcach groans again, his eyes squeezed shut. Áed says something, low, in Calcach’s ear; Esca makes out the word “mouth,” and Calcach jerks backward. Esca looks down, between Calcach’s legs, and sees Calcach press his thumb down, then hears him catch his breath as he opens his other hand. Esca watches, entranced, as Calcach’s seed pulses from the slit at the end, strands of white, one after another, puddling in his palm. Esca finds himself licking his lips as the sharp, unmistakable scent hits his nose; he has never seen it before, not like this, only watching and not feeling; and his gut tightens as he breathes in. 

He feels a movement at his side; Muirġa, still pressed up against him, is watching, not Calcach, but Esca; and he begins to stroke himself slowly. “Is it the first time you see this?” he whispers. Esca nods, now looking down at Muirġa’s spear as Muirġa speeds up his strokes. A groan, from Áed this time, distracts him yet again. Calcach is resting back on his heels, breathing hard, his spear hanging low between his legs, not yet soft; Áed, a hand on Calcach’s shoulder, is working his own spear so quickly his hand is a blur.

"Catch it,” Muirġa says in a low voice. Calcach reaches for Áed, cupping his empty hand beneath Áed’s spear. Esca leans in, trying to see past the blur of Áed’s fist; but then Áed grunts, startling him, and Esca sees his seed begin to fill Calcach’s waiting hand while Áed sighs, long and low, the sound seeming to surround all of them. At the last, seed still welling up in large droplets from his spear, Áed turns his head to Calcach’s shoulder, burying his face in Calcach’s neck and gasping for breath. 

Calcach looks over his head to Muirġa, who moves swiftly across the small space between them and takes Áed in his arms, pulling his face around to kiss him, making small noises in the back of his throat. Then he reaches for Áed’s spear, softening now, the hood creeping back over the head, all of it glistening with his release; and as Esca watches, another white drop forms while Áed shudders and murmurs something against Muirġa’s mouth. Muirġa strokes his thumb across the end of Áed’s spear, catching the droplet; and while they all watch, Áed no less intently than the other two, Muirġa brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it off. Esca hears Calcach inhale sharply; his own heart is pounding all at once and he feels his arrow begin to reassert itself. 

“My turn,” Muirġa says in Áed’s ear, loosing his grip on Áed’s spear. This makes Áed choke on something that sounds almost like a laugh. But now Muirġa’s back is to Esca, so Esca slides off the rock to his knees, on Muirġa’s other side, bracing himself with a hand on Muirġa’s hip. Muirġa turns, just as swiftly as before, and this time captures Esca’s mouth with his own, a deep, fervent kiss even as his hand speeds up again. “Do you like to watch?” Muirġa whispers then, and Esca can only nod, his hand resting on the back of Muirġa’s neck, his eyes drawn again, irresistibly, to Muirġa’s groin. Even the clearing is dim now, so the dusky skin of Muirġa’s arrow blends with the shadows cast by the four men; thus when Muirġa’s spear begins to spit its seed, it makes bright arcs, one after another, into Esca’s hand, poised beneath it, cupped and waiting, as Calcach had done, Calcach who kneels still, one hand filled with his seed and the other with Áed’s. 

Esca watches breathlessly as spurt follows spurt; he is close enough to see the tiny slit pulse as it releases Muirġa’s seed, and by the time Muirġa finishes, Esca is hard again. It takes all his will not to rub the seed in his hand all over his own arrow until he too finds release once more. But he doesn’t; he only breathes heavily, almost as heavily as Muirġa beside him. Under his hand that rests still on Muirġa’s neck, he feels tiny tremors, but when he firms his fingers, rubbing his thumb along the skin behind Muirġa’s ear, Muirġa flicks a warning glance at him and takes another breath. The tremors fade; and Esca is struck anew by Muirġa’s iron will. 

There is more here than Esca knows; he is almost growing used to this feeling now, floundering in an unknown ocean of doubt, currents swirling around him, nothing steady beneath him, nowhere to find his footing. He tries to take a breath and finds himself gasping instead, his heart pounding loud in his ears. But this, at least, is familiar, and has been for years, this he knows: he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Muirġa’s skin beneath his hand, the paint and the sweat beneath it, the prickles of clay on his palm and the softness of the skin behind Muirġa’s ear. 

By the time Muirġa has turned, Esca can breathe again, his heartbeat steadying, and he can feign ignorance, even innocence, widening his eyes in a mute question. Muirġa stares intently for a few moments, and then Esca can see him dismiss it, pushing it to the back of his mind for another time. He knows Muirġa is not easy to fool; it is one of the things that endears Muirġa to him. But Muirġa has already seen him in the throes of one of these attacks and he is certain that even now Muirġa is slotting pieces into place in one part of his mind. To distract them both, he raises his hand, inhaling the scent as it wafts past his nose, holding his hand out to Muirġa. “I have forfeited my part,” he says huskily, moving his other hand so his thumb can stroke Muirġa’s neck, downward, tracing the path his seed followed as Muirġa swallowed it all. “And would again.”

“As would I,” Muirġa says, and this time the flicker in his eyes conveys some gratitude, as if Esca is saying what Muirġa needs, or perhaps wants, him to say.

“You will,” Esca says, a delicious promise, his mouth watering all at once, so that he has to swallow.

“I will take your promise, my archer,” Muirġa says, his voice more hoarse than a moment ago, leaning in to close the small space between them.

Calcach clears his throat, bringing Esca to his senses, and he pulls back. Muirġa, too, seems to have clouds in his head for just a moment, as if not all of this was as calculated as Esca has begun to suspect. “Then you shall pronounce the winner,” Calcach says, and Áed leans in close, pulling Calcach so his hands are near to Esca’s.

Esca looks from his own hand to Calcach’s two. It is not a surprise that Muirġa’s seed is less than that held in either of Calcach’s hands; as Áed had said, their stones were well drained during the night, and then drained again as the sun stood high. “I am sorry, _a ṡearc_ ,” he says without thinking, then winces; but neither Calcach nor Áed reacts to hearing the endearment. “You – you spilled less.”

“It is all within you,” Muirġa says, his voice so low it pricks up the hair on the back of Esca’s neck. “I am content.” His voice returns to its normal timbre: “Áed or Calcach then: which of my brothers?” He takes Esca’s hand by the wrist and holds it while he scoops his seed from Esca, his fingers scraping across Esca’s palm. 

Thus relieved, Esca takes each of Calcach’s hands in his own. He turns them this way and that and, to his surprise, peering along with him, Áed snorts; whatever had been afflicting him earlier, then, has eased. Thus emboldened, Esca dips his forefinger in first one pool, then the other, gauging their depths. He sees Calcach nod from the corner of his eye. “It is close,” he says, forcing himself not to taste the seed on his finger, still warm. “But Áed seems to have the edge here.”

"Áed shows us the way again,” Muirġa says, and there is a note in his voice that sounds beyond pleased, whether with the results of the contest, or Esca, or something else entirely, Esca is unable to say. “Here, brothers, give it to me here.” He holds his hand under the nearer of Calcach’s hands, waiting as the small puddle drips into Muirġa’s hand to join with his own. As before, Muirġa uses his fingers to gather all of it, then repeats the process with Calcach’s other hand. 

They all watch as he mixes the puddle in his palm, stirring it with his forefinger. He takes that forefinger and presses it to Calcach’s forehead, between his eyes; then he dips it again and does the same to Áed, and then to Esca. Calcach, leaning forward, dips his own finger into the puddle and places a similar mark on Muirġa’s forehead. Muirġa catches Calcach’s hand and licks his finger, then opens his mouth around it and sucks it in. Calcach stares, his jaw suddenly slack; next to him, Áed makes a small, hungry noise, then takes Muirġa’s hand and sucks the finger with their mingled seed into his own mouth. Muirġa closes his eyes, pressing his finger into Áed’s mouth. Esca watches as his finger disappears beyond Áed’s lips and his hand goes to his arrow almost as if that hand belongs to someone else. 

“There is more,” Muirġa says, leaning in to kiss Áed briefly as he withdraws his finger. He dips that finger into the puddle again and presses it to Calcach’s lips, then repeats it for Áed, then, last, Esca. This time Esca is the one to suck Muirġa’s finger into his mouth, closing his eyes and stroking his arrow as it grows even more stiff in his grip. Muirġa withdraws his finger and Esca feels his mouth brush across Esca’s gently, just as he kissed Áed. Esca does not wait for Calcach this time: he takes Muirġa’s hand and dips two of his fingers in the puddle, pressing them against Muirġa’s lips. Muirġa opens his mouth and sucks both of Esca’s fingers in, his tongue swirling around them, laving them, until Esca feels as if Muirġa’s mouth is on his arrow. But it is only his own hand, stroking, his thumb, rubbing across the end, as Muirġa sucks the tips of his fingers. He feels a chill up his spine when Muirġa pulls his hand away, and he shivers.

“Yes,” Muirġa says. “Bare your chests, my brothers.” He suits actions to words, tugging at his shirt to pull it over the back of his head; Esca aids him, pulling on the sleeve nearest to him so that Muirġa does not spill the contents of his hand. When Muirġa’s shirt is removed, Esca pulls off his own tunic, shuddering as the cool breeze touches his heated skin. He sees Calcach shiver too; Áed, like Muirġa, sits back on his heels, stolid; but unlike the rest of them, his broad, pale chest is furred with coppery hair. 

“The heart,” Muirġa says, and this time his finger presses their seed to the middle of their breastbones, Esca last again; Muirġa’s finger lingers there, where Esca’s heart beats, after he has rubbed the seed into Esca’s skin, and their eyes meet. He sees words forming on Muirġa’s lips before Muirġa obviously remembers where they are as Áed presses a fingerful of seed to Muirġa’s chest, rubbing it in the same sunwise motion Muirġa used.

“And now,” Calcach says, moving closer still, so they are all shoulder to shoulder.

"Courage,” Muirġa says, and this time the seed is placed in their navels, one after another; Calcach takes his turn with Muirġa, using his thumb to press it inside, and Muirġa squirms under his touch. It breaks the seriousness; Calcach grins, wide, and Áed laughs. 

"He is ticklish,” he explains to Esca. “He has always been so, since he was a baby.”

“You do not remember that,” Muirġa says. “You have only one summer more than me.” To Esca, he says, “Áed has always taken advantage of being the oldest of us.” 

“I must take my advantages where I can,” Áed says, and he squeezes Muirġa’s shoulder briefly, the gesture full of an affection that makes Esca’s heart swell. “You were never easy to keep up with, _a stór_.” 

"He still is not,” Calcach says. “You will have your hands full with this one, Esca. I have seen it.”

“I also,” Esca says, trying to smile; but tears threaten to spill from his overfull heart.

"Now,” Muirġa says. “Fifth and last, my brothers.”

Calcach and Áed glance at each other, and Esca hears Áed draw in a breath, as if in anticipation.The pool in Muirġa’s hand is lessened, and Esca can see the edges drying. 

"Life,” Muirġa says, dipping his thumb in. Calcach closes his eyes, holding his spear and the stones beneath it up high; Muirġa presses the thumb at the base of Calcach’s stones and rubs. Calcach draws in a breath and strokes himself, his spear beginning to lengthen. Áed reaches over to hold Calcach’s spear, covering Calcach’s hand with his own. Muirġa returns to his hand, coating his thumb again; this time Calcach moves Áed’s spear and stones aside so Muirġa can reach the same spot on Áed. Muirġa rubs the seed into Áed’s skin the same as before, but as Áed’s spear stiffens in Calcach’s grip, Muirġa moves his hand up to caress the length of it, stroking the underside with his thumb. Esca finds himself holding his breath, watching, gripping himself, his arrow throbbing against his fingers. “My shield-brother,” Muirġa breathes, turning his attention to Esca. Esca swallows and tries to move his arrow and stones aside, but Áed is quicker: he takes Esca in hand, stroking him gently even while he pushes Esca’s arrow up and to the side. Esca thrusts his hips forward without thinking; Muirġa, reaching for him, swallows audibly.

“We are already bound by ties of blood and kinship,” he whispers. “This strengthens our bonds, my archer.” He presses his thumb to the soft skin behind Esca’s stones, rubbing against the small muscle there. Esca’s arrow jumps at the contact and Muirġa swallows again, sliding his thumb back to Esca’s entrance, pressing the remnants of the seed there too. 

"Here,” Calcach whispers, bringing Esca’s thumb to the rest of the pool in Muirġa’s hand. “This is the last of it, my brother.” He pulls Muirġa’s spear aside; it has reached its full length again and Muirġa bites back a sound as Calcach traps it between his hand and his belly. Esca reaches down, mimicking Muirġa’s motions, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin, pushing through the dark curls of hair there to rub their seed gently into the skin atop that small muscle. Muirġa thrusts his hips upward and Esca’s thumb skips down, down to Muirġa’s entrance. It is not hard to guess what Muirġa intends; Esca presses the rest inside the furl of skin there, just as Muirġa had done to him. 

He does not realize how close he has moved until he catches the scent of Muirġa’s arousal; the tip of his spear is wet, and where Calcach has it trapped against his belly, it has leaked, leaving a shiny spot. Esca leans in still more, moving his hand up so Muirġa’s stones are cupped in his palm. He hears someone gasp – it might be Calcach – as he licks Calcach’s fingers where they grip Muirġa’s spear and then closes his mouth over the end of it. But Calcach doesn’t release his grip; Esca feels his hand moving up and down, against his chin, as if he is feeding Muirġa’s spear to Esca. Esca can’t hold back a moan as he takes Muirġa into his mouth once more, tasting the salty fluid welling up, feeling Muirġa tremble beneath him as he rubs his thumb under Muirġa’s stones. He stretches out one finger, his middle finger, the longest, to reach for Muirġa’s entrance, pressing it gently, wishing he had some of the ointment. 

“What is it you do?” Calcach says, his voice low. Esca is not sure if it is a question, or if it is even directed at him, but he cannot answer: he will not relinquish Muirġa’s spear. 

Muirġa answers, his voice sounding strained. “Cunoval’s son... shows what shield-brothers practice.”

“I have heard of this,” Áed whispers from Esca’s other side, and Esca feels the warmth from his body; he is leaning close in. “Among the _finte_ in the lowlands.”

"Like the Brigantes,” Calcach says, still stroking Muirġa’s spear up into Esca’s mouth, a steady rhythm. 

"Even lower land,” Áed says, and Calcach snorts, breaking his rhythm. Muirġa’s hips stutter upwards and Esca’s finger slips downwards. Muirġa bears down and Esca shakes his head, mouthing Muirġa’s spear. Ointment, he thinks, wishing Muirġa to read his thoughts. It had not occurred to him before this, but now he sees why Muirġa wants it: a finger there, or two, as Muirġa had done to him that last time, in the cave, but reaching still further, crooked inside to find that mystery, the one that has him seeing sparks when Muirġa touches it... it would be a wonderful thing, he thinks, swallowing, the mouth here, the finger there. 

“ _A_ _flatha...”_ Calcach whispers after a few more moments; his voice is strained. 

"Esca,” Muirġa says, his hand on Esca’s cheek. “Will you share this, my archer?”

Esca’s first instinct, and second, is to say no. But he rocks back on his heels, breathing hard, averting his eyes from Muirġa’s spear, long, wet, flushed dark against the pale skin of his belly, as Calcach moves his hand, slow, stroking its length. He must not come to think of Muirġa as his, to share; he must remember Muirġa will need Calcach and Áed, will need both kin and _feann_ , when he is gone.

When he is dead.

Bile rises in his throat, burning the back of his mouth; tears sting his eyes. He swallows roughly, on the verge of vomiting, and the words that come from his mouth do not seem to be in his voice at all. “I am selfish, my brothers.” He cannot look at any of them; his courage is being tested in ways he never could have imagined. “I am selfish, and I am cold.” He attempts a laugh; to his ears, it sounds thin. “I have had more than I – more than my portion. I will await you at the fire.” 

He scrabbles for his shirt, moving lightly on his feet, though his heart is heavy and tries to drag him back. He ignores it, pulling his shirt on and his trousers up, hoping he will be out of earshot before his stomach finally rebels. He does not go to the fire; he is not cold. He does not want them to hear him in his illness; he does not want to hear them in their pleasure. 

He comes to a small clearing; there he can see the first stars. The moon has not yet risen, but it is not full dark. Esca has always had a sense of direction that was the envy of his _teglach_ , even in the dark. The Wolf Star is rising; he smiles involuntarily at the association, and picks out a line along its path. Then he begins to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So don't teach me a lesson 'cause I've already learned_  
>  _Yeah, the sun will be shining and my children will burn_  
>   
>  _Heart in a Cage_ , The Strokes


	10. May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground

He is not Tæsgali; he cannot run for days, as they do. But he is swift, he flows: he can live up to his name in that respect. He runs until his heart pounds in his ears; he runs until he cannot think past his next breath; he runs until the dryness of his throat has conquered the bile that burned there. He runs until he cannot hear anything but the wash of blood in his body, rolling in waves like the tide. He slows in another clearing, where a small stream springs from an outcropping of rocks, looking again for the Wolf Star and seeing it where he expected.

Then he sinks to his knees, gulping in deep shuddering breaths and feeling the blood rush through all his body, and he lets his tears flow: the tears for his mother, Candieda, whose crested waves he remembers tracing with a finger as she nursed him, one of his first memories; the tears for his father, Cunoval, strong and tall, his hair the colour of flame, like his grandson's, patiently teaching swordcraft to Esca’s brothers, and then to Esca himself; the tears for his mother's brother, Enabarr, who made him a bow and taught him to shoot arrows, whose steady, careful hand pricked the markings in his skin that showed the world Esca’s _teglach_ , Esca’s _fine_.

The tears for his brothers, who teased him as Áed and Calcach and Muirġa tease each other: Cartival, quick to remember his dignity but just as quick to smile, every bit as tall as their father; Froechan, who was bolder than any in the dún, who broke his arm diving from a cliff when his friends said he wouldn't. The tears for his father's brother, Tigern, a fierce warrior, stern and strong, who nonetheless bound up Froechan's arm so well and with such care that Froechan was able to bear a shield still. The tears for his people, dead, slaughtered by the Romans; their bodies, among whom he lay for hours, haunt his nightmares to this day. He is almost certain he is the only one of his _fine_ left alive, although he has always hoped others escaped in the confusion of the day. But then he remembers Girsa and Deargan, children taken prisoner, and he is not sure whether to wish life or death for his own people.

The tears for Girsa, alone and small among the Romans, bearing a child away from her people, and none to give her comfort except the cook, who liked the British slaves better than the Roman ones, and would keep back honey cakes, especially while Girsa was carrying; the tears for Deargan, smaller than Esca, much younger than Esca, his memories fading from month to month and then year to year until all he remembered was the Roman villa, the Roman tongue, their Roman master; the tears for the dead children of his second master, and the grief their parents felt: despite being Roman, they were parents, and their children had meant all to them.

There are the tears for Marcus, fighting to restore his family's honour against all odds, thinking himself alone, deserted, forgotten, and no way to reassure him. The tears for the _feann_ , who welcome a traitor in their midst; the tears for Calcach, and Áed, for Úlla, who seeks a child and whose child will be known as the son of a traitor unless Esca can find a way to redeem both Marcus’ and Muirġa’s life-debts.

And – last, and worst – the tears for Muirġa, who gives Esca all honour, who promises his life for Esca’s place in the _teglach_ , who gives even his heart to a man who deserves none of these, who plots to betray his people, his trust. Esca is past simple tears: he sobs his heartbreak to the unheeding trees, to the rising moon, railing against his fate yet knowing it is already past changing; and yet he cannot still his heart, he cannot still the yearning he feels to be at Muirġa’s side. Nor can he still the yearning he feels for Muirġa’s body: his hands, his spear, his mouth; and he weeps tears for his own weakness, his body's own treachery.

He wonders if he would have felt the same had Marcus shown him affection beyond his careless kindness. He hopes not; he thinks not; but can he be sure? This was the danger, he thinks drearily, moving from his knees to sit on the ground, his back against a rotting log. He wipes his his eyes on his sleeve and blows his nose into a handful of leaves. He should have foreseen it; even Muirġa, who has known him for such a little time, had seen it: he does have a trusting heart, and when it found someone to trust, a place to call home, he lost control of it after that. His mistake was thinking that since his heart had remained untouched, it was untouchable. Everything has happened so quickly: it has not been two days and yet he is already beyond help, because his heart has found its home with Muirġa.

He takes a deep breath, then another. His throat aches like a fire has been kindled in it, so stiff he can barely swallow.

Yet Muirġa’s heart has also found a home with him; if this is not real, then Muirġa too has been led astray. His mother used to tease her brother, who felt no pull towards men or women, that there was someone for everyone. He would say to her that, in that case, his someone must be very elsewhere, perhaps in Gaul, or Eriu. His mother would offer to pack a bag for a long journey, and he would snort and tell her to return to her weaving. Perhaps Esca’s someone – Muirġa – has also been very elsewhere all this time; although Esca is no druid, all his family said he was more like Enabarr than any other.

And there is no point to any of this. He draws his knees to his chest, holding them close, staring ahead with unseeing eyes. His mind is as tired as the rest of him; his thoughts are no longer his own, but spiral somewhere beyond his control. He blanks his mind carefully, slowly, one thought at a time, choking each tendril off as if he pulls weeds from his mother's small garden. His family – gone. His _fine_ – gone. His time as a slave – gone.

There are some small sounds from the tree line. He narrows his eyes, expecting to see a fox. But it is more than that: it is a wildcat, two half-grown kits with her, all of them stepping delicately to the rocks where the water burbles. He heard of these as a boy, but they were never seen in the Brigantes’ lands. He and Marcus had run across one, coming north across the mountain where the snow rests even in summer, but it had been a glimpse only, too large to be a fox, reddish fur, a short tail, bounding this way and that away through the trees and rocks. Marcus had told him that the Romans kept such animals, but smaller. They came from Egypt, he said, and they caught mice. But Marcus had not seen them in Britain; he had not even seen them in Gaul. He had scratched a picture in the dirt: large slanted eyes, and a sharp triangular face.

The wildcats, drinking now from the spring, look nothing like Marcus' picture. They are not the same; these are British, not Roman, their eyes large but not outsized, their noses broad and strong, small tufts of fur on their cheeks, and their paws, even on the smaller two, the size of a dog's. They seem as if they could kill a small deer, not mice, and he feels a welling of affection for them, unconquered and unconcerned, belonging to this wild land just as surely as Muirġa does.

He watches them as they drink their fill, careful not to move or even breathe too loudly. The smaller of the two kits plays in the water; the mother sits on her haunches, watching, then lifts one of the paws to her mouth and licks it, then scrubs the paw across her cheek tuft. He watches in fascination as she does it again and again: she is cleaning herself with tongue and paw. The one not playing in the water sits next to her and imitates her. Then the smaller one jumps across the stones, dislodging a rock that clatters down, making all three of them jump. Both the little ones dash to the trees in the space of two heartbeats. The mother looks around the clearing, her hackles raised, a faint growl beginning, and locks eyes with Esca. They stare at each other for a long moment and then she turns and is gone with a flick of her tail.

The sign is clear: it is past time for Esca to be gone as well. He gets slowly to his feet, stiff and sore, and shakes his legs out. He feels as if he has left part of himself here, and perhaps he has. But he also feels more at peace, tucking away the bits of his heart that spilled here and there. There is no point to any of this, but this time the thought is not accompanied with the self pity or despair of just a little while ago. His path is set. He has put his foot to it. Mourning what was and what might have been leads only to hopelessness, and he is not without hope; only, he thinks wryly, a twist the bards themselves would envy, without a future.

He quenches his thirst as the wildcats did, leaning in to where the water bubbles upward, letting it flow across his tongue and chin. The moon is high now, and it makes his way finding easier. It will be full in a few days: when he is initiated into the _feann_ , when he visits the strand with Úlla.

But he pushes that out of his mind too, along with the other thoughts, lest they erode his hard-fought numbness: it is not the time. Instead he concentrates on finding his way back. He knows he ran further than it seemed, so he doesn’t panic when it seems to take longer than it should. Finally he begins to recognise landmarks, and then at last he comes to the clearing where he first saw the Wolf Star. His heart grows heavy; he will have to face Muirġa, and Áed and Calcach; and he knows they may have been worried. They may even have been insulted. It is clear, now that he has some distance, that all three are comfortable with their own pleasure, and the pleasure to be found with each other. It is equally clear he is not, although perhaps if he had been initiated into the _feann_ of the Brigantes he might have grown to be, just as it is possible that, if he could stay, he might learn to be. He sighs, his heart heavier now. He scents the wind, seeking a trace of the camp fire, and sets his face to the south. The smell of smoke grows stronger as he makes his way through the trees.

Without warning, Muirġa looms up in his path. Esca had been expecting someone to stand watch and he is not surprised it is Muirġa. He stands still and looks at Muirġa, his heart beating faster. Muirġa looks at him; his eyes glitter in the moonlight. They stand for a time, looking at one another. “Esca,” Muirġa says finally, his voice low. “Are you well?”

Esca is too raw to be anything but honest. “No,” he says, his voice unwavering. “I would not trade this time with you for anything in the world, _a_ _Ṁuirġa_. But I should have died with my people.”

Muirġa does not move. But his voice, too, is unwavering. “I can think of no one less suited for dying than you, _an-áthas mo chroí_.” [[40]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/42356423#note40)

Esca feels the pain and joy rush back into his heart along with the implications of Muirġa’s affection; the welcome numbness is gone again and he feels his throat begin to close up.

“I cannot replace your people,” Muirġa says, his voice quiet, even gentle; and his gentleness makes Esca swallow convulsively. “I would not try. But I would give you a place here.”

Esca swallows again. He cannot move, or speak.

“A place of your own,” Muirġa says, still quietly but more insistent. “A place that is Esca. Not Tæsgali. Not Brigantes. Not our _teglach_ , nor our _feann_.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Esca says, his voice wavering. He is suddenly, desperately exhausted.

“What is in my power to give you, you already have. It is to be yourself, here, among us.” Muirġa straightens his back and takes one step towards Esca before he stops again. “I know the burden of the _teglach_ weighs on you: the life-debt. But this is done. There is no turning back. Do you see it? This burden is also freedom. I do not ask you to shoulder that burden for me, that of the _feann_ , the _teglach_ , and, someday, the _fine_. I ask you only to ally yourself with me. I do not ask you to stop being Esca.”

Esca lets all his own affection for Muirġa well up in his heart, and he lets that affection show in his smile. “I don’t know who else I could be, so it is just as well.”

Muirġa answers his smile, relief evident, and closes the distance between them, taking Esca by the shoulders. “ _An-áthas mo chroí_ ,” he says again. He brushes a thumb across Esca’s cheek; Esca feels his face burn. “You look as weary as I feel,” he says. “Come to the fire.”

Áed and Calcach are sleeping; the fire is burning low. Somewhat to Esca’s surprise – for he has hunted with the three of them before – Áed and Calcach are sharing their coats this night, tall Calcach curled up in front of broad Áed. Muirġa follows Esca’s gaze; there is a smile on his face Esca has never seen before: gentle... perhaps hopeful. But he says nothing more to Esca save that they have the right idea. He pulls Esca to the ground with him on the opposite side of the fire, onto his coat, wrapping Esca in his arms. Esca fears he will not sleep but Muirġa had the right of it: he is weary, and he is soothed to feel the warmth and strength of Muirġa behind him again.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

40. _An-athas mo chroí_ (Ann-athh asz mo chree) is a term of endearment and means 'joy of my heart'.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/42356423#orig_40) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _may your past be the sound_  
>  _of your feet upon the ground_  
>  _carry on_  
>   
>  ~ _Carry On_ , Fun.  
>   
>   
>   
> There is a lovely website and documentary about the [Wildcats of Scotland](http://www.tigersofscotland.com) that I discovered only after I wrote this and did my own research. Isn't that always the way.


	11. These moments are fleeting as they are pure

Áed and Calcach both rise at dawn. Esca hears them stir, and smiles sleepily at Calcach when he peers down, putting his finger to his lips. He hears a quiet grunt and a stifled laugh, and 

he goes back to sleep with the knowledge that Áed and Calcach have gone into the trees. 

The smell of roasting meat wakes him the second time; behind him, Muirġa stirs, an ear-cracking yawn following. 

“They will sleep away the day,” Calcach says loudly, poking the fire. Áed only laughs; Esca cracks open an eyelid to see him lounging at Calcach’s feet. 

“We will,” Muirġa rumbles from behind him.

Esca sits up, rubbing his eyes, and Calcach leans over to hand him a skin of water. Somewhat to Esca’s surprise, Calcach is no longer painted nor, when he focuses his eyes, is Áed. Muirġa sits up beside him, taking the skin from Esca when Esca finishes. “So,” Muirġa says, eyeing them both. “I see.”

“You may join us,” Áed says lazily. “Then later we shall travel to the clay pit.” 

“I may,” Muirġa says, and his hand is warm on Esca’s back.

As they eat, Áed and Calcach tell Esca of the clay pit. When they are in the dún, it is easier to replenish their paint there, where the mud is clay that is easy to paint with. When they travel, on long hunting parties or raiding parties, they carry the clay dust with them in skins. Muirġa joins in with a tale of a spring to the north that is warm all the year round. When Esca stares at Muirġa in disbelief, Áed and Calcach grin knowingly. Esca too anticipates Muirġa’s promise: “We will journey there when the first snows fall. I do not think Úlla has ever been there.” 

After they eat, Áed and Calcach accompany them to the pool where they bathed earlier in the morning. Esca steels himself against his embarrassment, stripping down in front of their eyes. But they do not stare, nor do Muirġa’s eyes linger, and Esca feels his embarrassment ease as he wades into the pool. He has no clay to wash off, but he submerges himself, then watches Muirġa dive in the water and come up snorting like the seal in the cave. When they emerge, shivering, Muirġa rubs himself briskly until his skin glows pink, and it reminds Esca of their first night together, only Muirġa’s hair is still braided instead of falling loose. 

The day passes languorously. They bring their catch to the dún, and Úlla takes the brace of hares from Calcach, dancing with joy. “She is fond of this fur,” Calcach tells Esca. “It is the softest next to that of the tree martens, but they are not so easy to catch.” On their way to the clay pit, Áed and Calcach hang back from time to time, and this also seems to please Muirġa.

There is a small _teg_ at the clay pit, with low stone walls and a turfed roof, as if it began to be a _borra_ and then stopped. Calcach tells Esca that there is always someone there to keep the fire burning. The _fennidi_ take it in turn, and sometimes Iuuar watches over it as well. Thus Esca is unsurprised that they encounter other _fennidi_. They fetch and carry mead, and roast a haunch from a deer. After they eat, some who are painted leave; others, unpainted, stay, lounging in the sun wearing only their loincloths, some wearing nothing at all. Even Muirġa discards his coat; as the sun climbs high, the day approaches almost the heat Esca knew in the south, in Calleva, and he’s grateful for his breeches and the breeze on his bare calves. 

But Muirġa does not lounge with the _fennidi_. Instead he takes Esca on a run, in part, he says briefly, to give Esca the lay of the land: the clay pit overlooks the shore, in a deep-cut ravine. On their way back, after they drink their fill at a small stream, Muirġa squats, overlooking the campsite for a time, watching the comings and goings. Esca joins him, although he has little idea what Muirġa watches for, or indeed what Muirġa wants. That it is something to do with Áed and Calcach seems likely; that it may have something to do with the practice of the Brigantes is a hunch of Esca’s, nothing more. 

“Do you paint yourself tonight?” Esca asks, more to make conversation than anything else. He is not one to fill silence idly, but Muirġa has taken his normal reticence to new levels this day. 

“In the morning,” Muirġa says. “If you would aid me, you may. It is easier that way. Although some roll in it and let it dry. But this makes our women unhappy, to have the clay inside our clothes.”

Esca fingers Muirġa’s shirt: it is very soft and supple, he knows that already. “They are very skilled,” he says.

“They are,” Muirġa says. “They will begin the doeskin we brought today for you. Soon Nechtann will ask the gods for permission to hunt a spotted sea-bear. Then you will have a coat and leggings of your own.” He stops suddenly, both in word and step, and when Esca looks over at him, he sees a frown on Muirġa’s face. “If you desire these.”

“I am honoured,” Esca says; there is nothing else he can say.

Muirġa seems to realize this; his frown grows more ominous. “If you do not desire it, we will trade with the Boresti or the Caledonii for your garments if our women cannot learn to make them. I meant what I said. You remain Esca, as you will.”

“These shirts are soft and sturdy,” Esca says. “I am honoured.” Muirġa in this mood is an unknown quantity altogether. 

Finally Muirġa sits himself down, resting his arms on his bent knees. The hill overlooking the clay pit is covered with a meadow, green now turning to gold. The grass is soft and long and Esca sinks down beside Muirġa with a happy exhalation, lowering himself to rest on his back. Muirġa glances at him briefly, a small grin on his lips, before looking back to the clay pit. Although Esca feels stirrings of desire, Muirġa seems to feel none, so Esca turns his attention to the sky, bright blue, with wisps of clouds high up. He shades his eyes with his forearm and watches the gulls circle and chatter.

Beside him, Muirġa heaves a sigh. “What do you watch?” he asks.

“The clouds. The birds.” Esca lifts his forearm to look over at Muirġa, but Muirġa is still looking down the hill at the campsite. “This is a peaceful place.” 

“Yes,” Muirġa says. “Soon the grass will dry, and we will harvest it for our boots for the winter. Every day of sun brings it closer. Lugos smiles during his time.” Esca nods; among his people, they also stuff dried grass in their boots when it is wet and cold. There is little better when one needs to wade through icy water. He has often wondered how the Roman soldiers function in the winter; sometimes he thinks that the weather alone might keep them from the north. 

Muirġa scuffles in the grass, pulling up several brown strands of grass. He puts the ends in his teeth and plaits it deftly into a long, tight cord, knotting it at the end. Then he crosses his legs and leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky. 

Esca feels in the grass, his fingers finding Muirġa’s next to him, and covers Muirġa’s hand with his own. Muirġa opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks over at Esca, then turns his fingers over to grasp Esca’s, and slides down to join Esca on his back in the grass. After a time, he says, “Do you think yourself a bird, my archer? Or a cloud?”

“Sometimes,” Esca says. Muirġa’s thumb is stroking the back of his hand and Esca closes his eyes to better enjoy the sensation. “Do you?”

Muirġa sighs. “Not anymore.”

“You take too much upon yourself,” Esca says. 

“The eel complains that the fish is too slippery.” 

Esca snorts, then laughs, as much at the unexpectedness of Muirġa’s sally as at the truth of his words. Muirġa chuckles along with him, then rolls onto his side. Esca’s belly contracts in anticipation of Muirġa’s touch, his lips, his hands. But Muirġa strokes Esca’s head only, twining his fingers in Esca’s hair.

“Do you grow it?” Muirġa says. Esca feels Muirġa’s fingers busy behind his ear, pulling and twisting. “This is the Roman style.”

“I have grown used to it,” Esca says. “As the _fennidi_ grow used to shaving their heads.” He bites his tongue on the laughter that swells within him at the idea of shaving his head

“You speak truth,” Muirġa says, coming up on one elbow and tugging at the strand of hair he has in his fingers. “I would like to see your hair longer. It would make such easier.” He flicks the hair against Esca’s neck; Esca feels a stiffness there now. He reaches up to discover Muirġa has wrapped the grass plait around a short lock of Esca’s hair. He imagines it resembles the wraps in Muirġa’s hair, and his fingers tighten convulsively over it.

“Here,” Muirġa says, sounding worried, leaning over him. “You pull it out thus–”

“No!” Esca says, blinking away wetness all at once. “No, _a chroí_. Please leave it.” He cups his hand over it; the rest has made him feel a part of Muirġa’s _teglach_ ; but this small intimacy makes him feel part of Muirġa’s life. He blinks through the blur in his eyes until Muirġa’s face is clear once more; there is a small smile on Muirġa’s lips and his eyes are warm.

“It will stay some time,” he says, his voice low, and Esca’s belly unfolds a coil of warmth. He puts a hand up to Muirġa’s neck and pulls him down until their lips meet. The kiss is soft and warm, but Muirġa does not deepen it, and after a moment Esca loosens his hold. Muirġa drops a kiss on Esca’s forehead, then, and lets himself fall back to the grass, but this time closer to Esca. Then Esca remembers his sojourn on the beach and he feels for his pouch, scrabbling in it with his other hand. He feels the rounded pebbles of amber and pulls them out, displaying them in his palm. Muirġa leans up again to look. 

“I found these on the shore,” Esca says. “I thought they would look well in your hair. I do not have a bore, but I know someone must.” With his other hand, he teases his fingers through the beads and wraps at the ends of Muirġa’s plaits. 

“Allidd,” Muirġa says, his eyes alight. “We call these the tears of Niamh.” He rolls them in the cup of Esca’s hand with his forefinger; even that inadvertent touch sends a thrill up Esca’s spine. “The are already smooth.”

“The will polish well,” Esca says, nodding. He has only a dim idea of the Niamh of whom Muirġa speaks; the people of the seals have different tales than the Brigantes, he has learned.

“You have the eyes of a hawk, my archer,” Muirġa says. “To spot these among the sand and pebbles. I thank you.”

“You need not thank me,” Esca says, enclosing Muirġa’s hand in both his own.

“Such things bring you pleasure,” Muirġa says, flattening his hand within Esca’s grasp, rolling the amber beads against both their palms, and Esca knows he is thinking of the comb.

“Yes,” he says, pulling Muirġa’s hand up to rest between his on his chest. “To have the time to do as you wish. To walk along the shore. To watch clouds. Even to make arrowheads. I had meant to ask you where the best flint is. I have seen some come back with it. I am sadly out of practice.”

“To be at the beck and call only of the seasons, of our needs,” Muirġa says, his voice hoarse all at once. Then he is over Esca, his mouth urgent, trapping both Esca’s hands and one of his own between their chests. But this doesn’t seem to hinder him; he pulls Esca close with his other hand, drawing in a deep, noisy breath through his nose. Esca groans in response, happiness swelling through his chest, lifting one leg high to wrap around Muirġa’s hips so he can thrust up against him. He is already full hard, and he wishes for a hand free only so he can dispense with their clothes; he ruts up against Muirġa regardless, because this is enough.

Once again, however, Muirġa breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, his breath hot against Esca’s neck. He arches his back, dislodging Esca’s leg, freeing Esca’s hands. Esca lets the amber roll unheeded in the grass, gripping Muirġa’s neck, his other hand going to Muirġa’s hip. “What–” he says, but Muirġa pushes himself up and off Esca, rolling onto his back and panting. 

“No,” Muirġa says, drawing in great breaths. “This must be – it cannot–”

“What?” Esca says again, coming to his knees and straddling Muirġa. He pins Muirġa to the ground, a hand at each of Muirġa’s wrists, his groin matched with Muirġa’s. “Because I would not share last night?”

Muirġa stares up at him; despite the sunlight, his pupils are pools of black. “It must be your choice,” he says at last, and for once his voice sounds thin. Esca grinds his groin against Muirġa’s and Muirġa closes his eyes and thrusts upward, his teeth catching in his lower lip. 

“What makes you think it is not?” Esca says, his voice so low it might be a growl, lowering himself to press his tongue against Muirġa’s lip, against his teeth there, against the indentation left in Muirġa’s lip. “What makes you think any of this is not my choice?”

“Is it?” Muirġa grinds out. But he does not struggle against Esca’s hold; and between his legs, Esca feels an equivalent hardness. 

“Do you think I do not wish to lie with you?” Esca lets one of Muirġa’s wrists go so he can tug at the tie at Muirġa’s waist. “Do you think I do not wish to wear your clothes, so I can free my arrow with ease?” He suits actions to words, letting Muirġa’s spear, fully hard, spring up. “Do you think I do not wish to taste you, _a chuisle_ , the pulse of your spear against my tongue, the fullness of your stones, the life of your seed? That I do not wish you to fill my belly and my backside to the brim, time and again?” 

Muirġa groans loud, thrusting his spear in the air, in the space between Esca’s thighs. 

“Do you think that I do not wish to feel you pressing against the mystery you have shown me? Do you think that, _a flatha_?” He uses the same word as Calcach, deliberately: if Nechtann is in truth the _fine_ ’s king, then Muirġa must be its prince, no matter whose bloodlines will rule the _fine_ after him. “You who named me Taesca,” he growls, pushing Muirġa’s shirt up, baring his chest. “You who took my seed into your mouth, into your body. Tell me you think that was not my choice.” He lowers his mouth to Muirġa’s chest, nipping at the skin around one nipple, sucking the point of flesh into his mouth, relentless, while he finds Muirġa’s spear with his free hand. Muirġa groans and writhes beneath him, thrusting up into Esca’s grip. 

“And here is the nub of it,” he says, releasing Muirġa’s spear all at once and pressing a thumb against Muirġa’s nipple so that he grimaces and writhes again. “Do you think I do not wish to share you?”

“You have – you have said it,” Muirġa grits out between clenched teeth; his wrist flexes under Esca’s other hand. 

“Do you think it?” Esca says, flicking the hard little nipple under his thumb.

“I do,” Muirġa grinds out, and Esca feels his spear jumping against Esca’s belly with his words. “I do think it.” His breath hitches. “You – you are Brigantes. You were – ahh!” Esca bites his nipple again, licking it after. “Esca! You have no knowledge of the _feann_ , of the sea-brothers–”

“I am your shield-brother,” Esca says, clenching his own jaw as he presses his arrow against Muirġa’s spear. “You have said it.” 

“I have seen it,” Muirġa gasps. “Last night. It was too much to ask. Perhaps all of this has been–”

Esca silences him with his mouth, his hands, his tongue: it is too close to what he himself has thought, too close to the danger he skirted last night as he ran. 

But Muirġa struggles to free his mouth, finding his voice. “If you do not wish to share me,” he says against Esca’s mouth, “then you shall not.”

“If I am to be a sea-brother–” Esca begins. 

“I seek _your_ wish, _a chroí_ ,” Muirġa says, and closes his mouth on Esca’s neck, suckling the flesh.

“My... wish...” Esca cannot think; all his senses are pooled at his groin, where Muirġa’s spear stabs upwards. “... it is not my wish to bed any save you. But if you wish Calcach to bed me, if you wish to see his spear part my flesh, enter me–”

“No!” Muirġa roars; his fingers clench Esca’s shoulders and his spear throbs against Esca’s; a moment later Esca feels the warm flood of Muirġa’s seed soaking the front of his breeches and smells the sharp, bitter scent rising between them. 

Even the air seems to throb heavily between them; beneath him, Muirġa’s chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. Esca stares, caught between desire and shock at his own actions, his own daring, and Muirġa’s reaction to all of it. But before he can say anything, Muirġa speaks, his eyes still closed, his voice flat. “To enter the _feann_ , the initiates must lie with a _fenned_ as our seal brothers lie with each other. It was to be me. Now I cannot. Áed agreed to take my place.”

He stares at Muirġa, barely understanding, his mind struggling with all the implications. As he begins to comprehend, he feels his arrow goes as limp as a wrung out rag. Muirġa must feel it too; he opens his eyes at last and looks up at Esca, a frown beginning to crease his brow. Unbidden, the thought springs to his mind that he could have easily said ‘Áed’ as ‘Calcach,’ just now; and he feels a bubble of hilarity rising in his chest. “Then–” he has to stop, and swallow that bubble of laughter that threatens to burst free, “then I suppose it is as well that it – it won’t be Calcach,” he says finally, straining to keep his voice level. 

Muirġa chokes on a laugh even while he stares, as if he does not believe his own ears; Esca tries to smile but he feels it slide awry. He feels shaky all at once, his arms going as limp as his arrow. He rolls off Muirġa and lets himself fall to the grass, closing his eyes against the sun and the shock and the secrets under it all.

He feels Muirġa move next to him; then there is a hand on his face, a thumb brushing across his lips. He opens his eyes to see Muirġa, looking down at him, his smile as warm as if Esca had not just–

“Not one man in this _fine_ would dare do such to me, or say such to me,” Muirġa says, and he sounds dazed. “But you do it, _an-áthas mo chroí_ , with all courage, and you say these truths, yet with all your joy so that I too laugh. It won’t be Calcach. It won’t be Áed. I will do both. I am the _rí_ _féinne_. It is for me to say.” 

“No!” Esca says. “If I am to be a part of your _feann_ , it must be in the same manner as all.” He tries to collect his thoughts. “I have seen enough to know these currents among the _fine_ drift also into the _feann_.”

Muirġa nods once, short and sharp, as he stares unblinking.

“It could not be said that we did not fulfill the ritual for the _teglach_ ,” Esca says, working it out as he speaks. “It cannot be said this ritual also goes unfulfilled, or those who speak against the _teglach_ will have a stronger voice, and your plans for the _feann_ , and the _fine_ , may be more easily dismissed.” He closes his eyes. “That – that you make changes where none are needed will undermine the argument for changes where they are vital.” 

He has had much experience being bedded where he had no desire, and he had no choice then. Then came Muirġa, where he had much desire, and only a little choice, though that cannot be laid to Muirġa’s account: again, when all has been said and done, Esca has chosen what he must do so his own honour is satisfied and his debt to Marcus can be paid. Here, with Áed, he will have no desire, but it will be his choice. 

In truth, if looked at from inside all Esca’s secrets, Muirġa is the one being used, and Esca feels a deep flush of shame wash over him. Muirġa cannot suffer by it: he must not lose any more face, or influence, than Esca has already put him at risk for losing.

“Then I will visit the strand next summer,” Muirġa says; his voice echoes strangely in Esca’s ears, awash as they are in the flood of his own self-revulsion.

“No,” he says, reaching blindly to pull Muirġa down so that their lips touch. “No,” he whispers. “Your concern for me swells my heart. But you are the _rí féinne_ , and you must keep all your promises. I will not be the cause of any words spoken against you. I am a man now, and I will do what men must, especially for those we – we honour.”

Muirġa pulls back, and Esca looks up at him again. “But you have said you do not wish–”

Esca sighs without meaning to; his heart is beating heavy and slow in his chest. “I have said it,” he says. “But understand I did not know this was expected. I would have been more careful with my words.”

“You say what is in your heart,” Muirġa says. “This is the truth I wish to hear.”

“My heart remains unchanged,” Esca says. “But words cannot be unspoken or unheard, and I am sorry for that.”

“I am not sorry,” Muirġa says, his voice low yet fierce. “My own heart swells to hear such words from you. The fault is mine, that I did not tell you all before this. But that it led to these words from you? I cannot find it in me to be sorry.” He pulls Esca close in; but his kiss is soft, even gentle, belying his tone. After a moment, his hand goes to Esca’s waist, moving up under Esca’s shirt. At the same time, his tongue breaches Esca’s mouth and Esca feels a rumble deep in Muirġa’s throat. He feels despair mixed with a strange kind of longing, and he feels blindly for Muirġa’s face, his head, cupping the back of his head so that his fingers entwine in Muirġa’s plaits. Muirġa’s spear has sharpened again; Esca feels it pressing against his thigh. But his own remains obstinate, quiescent even as Muirġa’s lips trail down his throat and his fingers find one of Esca’s nipples, teasing gently until it peaks.

“I could drink you in,” Muirġa murmurs against the base of his throat. “I would paint your flesh with my own seed.” 

Esca remembers the night before, Muirġa’s spear pulsing into his hand, the warm seed filling his cupped palm, and he shudders up against Muirġa, feeling the softness between his legs twitch. 

“I do not know how we have not come to know this,” Muirġa whispers, pulling Esca’s shirt up and licking one nipple. “But I can see it takes some trust, to put yourself thus in another's mouth. It is little wonder the Romans do not practice this. But now we shall practice it.”

"All of you?” Esca says, and then gasps as Muirġa sucks at his nipple. 

“As goes the _rí féinne_...” Muirġa says, lifting his head, a smile pulling up one side of his mouth. 

“...so go the _fennidi_?” Esca says. “Oh!” For now Muirġa’s hand has found its way into his breeches. “Wait, _a_ _Ṁuirġa_ , my brother, so you – so that–”

“Yes,” Muirġa says, rubbing a thumb across the end of Esca’s arrow, then drawing his hand up to his mouth. He licks his thumb, holding Esca’s gaze, and Esca’s heart begins to pound. 

“That is why–”

“That is not why,” Muirġa says quickly. “Yet I could not let the opportunity pass, my archer.” He pulls Esca close, searching his face. “My thoughts were with the _feann_ ,” he says quietly. “Not as much with you, and your comfort.”

“I was pleased,” Esca says, his voice as quiet as Muirġa’s. “Let there be no doubt. I could see – I thought it was a distraction.”

“In part,” Muirġa says, his voice so quiet Esca strains to hear, and his body is suddenly tense. 

“A distraction and... an example,” Esca says, leaning up to press his lips to the corner of Muirġa’s mouth. “I begin to see.”

Muirġa pulls Esca close, so close his words are barely a breath in Esca’s ear; but his body is no longer so rigid. “If it had been you...”

“It would have been Brigantes,” Esca whispers back, now touching his lips to the curve of Muirġa’s ear. “Not Tæsgali.” 

“ _A ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa says, kissing the spot just in front of Esca’s ear. “Our minds are one.” He looms up over Esca, pushing Esca’s shirt up, pulling his breeches down. Esca fumbles one-handed with a boot at one ankle as Muirġa pulls off his own shirt and then his loincloth, so he kneels, naked but for his leggings, astride Esca. Esca finally frees one leg from his clothing and pushes Muirġa off him so he can draw that bared knee up, opening himself. Muirġa scrabbles in his pouch and emerges with the small pot of ointment, scooping some out and pushing it into Esca’s entrance even as he closes his mouth over the end of Esca’s arrow and sucks lightly. Esca hisses and pushes down against Muirġa’s finger. Muirġa hisses in turn and Esca opens his eyes to see Muirġa coating his spear. Esca hugs his knee to his chest, urging Muirġa between his thighs, pulling him closer with his other leg and then his free hand. He feels an urgency he hasn't felt before, as if he is racing something unseen. When Muirġa presses a finger in, Esca shakes his head and pulls him closer, reaching between them for Muirġa’s spear. Though this is only the third time they have done it like this, he already aches to feel Muirġa within him. 

“Slowly,” Muirġa says, but Esca has guided the head of his spear to his entrance now. “Esca–”

“I – need–” Words are of little use; Esca arches his back and pulls Muirġa in, hooking his leg around Muirġa’s waist. Muirġa groans, loud, and plunges forward. Esca opens with only a small twinge. The glide inward is long and sweet and Esca lets his moan escape as he feels Muirġa seat himself fully. 

But Muirġa does not move for a long, long moment; Esca’s arrow is throbbing in time with his heart as it races. He grips Muirġa tight, inside and out, trying to urge him to move. “A moment,” Muirġa gasps, and Esca sees the whites of his eyes. 

This is a new power, one that rushes to his groin, more intoxicating than any herbed honey. Although Muirġa just spent, Esca realises he is on the verge again; and it is Esca who has done this to Muirġa – Muirġa, who is known among his brothers for lasting longer than any. Muirġa drops his head to Esca’s collarbone, and Esca feels the sweat gathered there as Muirġa fights for control. He loosens his grip, stroking Muirġa gently along his back, avoiding his backside and relaxing his muscles, all of them, to give Muirġa some respite within him. 

“Never have I–” Muirġa bites out and Esca strokes him, feeling the fine tremors through the long muscles of his back. 

“Take what you will,” Esca whispers, and although he is trying not to move he can’t help a small thrust upwards. “Take what you need, shield-brother.”

“I – will–” Muirġa grits out, and he thrusts into Esca, finally, short sharp stabs, sending Esca cross eyed: Muirġa’s aim for the mystery inside is unerring and Esca feels himself stiffen still more, his arrow sliding between their sweat-slicked bellies. “We will.” His voice turns triumphant; he pulls out, almost completely, then strokes back in, burying himself in his entirety. He thrusts again, and again, and again, until Esca can think of nothing beyond the feel of Muirġa in him, on him, his arrow twitching and jerking against their bellies with every one of Muirġa’s strokes. He lifts both his knees, bracing himself with one hand in the grass, urging Muirġa deeper, faster; in turn, Muirġa braces himself on one hand, grasping Esca’s hip with the other, seating himself deep inside. He does it again, and again, so Esca’s teeth rattle and he feels the dull thud of the earth beneath them as his arrow is pressed between them, over and over.

He opens his eyes and looks up past Muirġa to the sky, the clouds, the sun behind Muirġa’s head. “Now the sky can see us,” he gasps, and then his arrow spits its seed as he spasms around Muirġa’s length, buried deep within him. His release is complete; he is only dimly aware of Muirġa’s fingers digging deep into the flesh at his hips, of the pulses within him, of the deep grunts Muirġa is making. He is floating free with the clouds and the gulls, wheeling between the earth and the sky, and he closes his eyes to relish the flight. 

He feels, rather than sees, Muirġa lean forward on the hand near Esca’s shoulder. Then he feels a hand on his chest: Muirġa’s hand, caressing him, rubbing his seed into his skin, tracing the hollow of his chest with a gentle finger. Then the touch ceases; he opens his eyes to see Muirġa rubbing Esca’s seed into his own chest, in the hollow there. 

“The sky has indeed seen us,” Muirġa says, his voice soft; and he thrusts inward once more, as if his spear had not finished. He lets himself down, then, as Esca lowers his knees, feeling the ground beneath his feet once more. “Come this night, I will stay within you until I sharpen again, as you did in the cave,” Muirġa whispers, his cheek bearing some small stubble now that matches Esca’s own; and Esca feels his arrow twitch at the thought. “Again and... still. Everything is possible. _An-áthas mo chroí_ , I understand. I understand shield-brothers now. I would–”

Esca pulls Muirġa’s face to his own and stops further words with a kiss. Muirġa has brought him back to reality with a thud that could almost shake the ground beneath them. As if echoing his distress, there is a distant rumble of thunder. Muirġa lifts his head, listening, then pulls himself upright. Esca suppresses a protest at the twinge that is Muirġa leaving his body, but he can’t suppress the sigh. Muirġa looks back down, then drops a quick kiss, not on Esca’s mouth, but on his nose, and grins. Again he looks young, younger than his bearing and manner usually suggest; again Esca’s heart breaks. He is not sure how many pieces it is in now; he has lost count. 

“I believe it will pass us by,” Muirġa says then, looking out to the sea. “Look, Esca; is this anything you have seen?” He pulls Esca up, pointing out at the horizon, where dark clouds are gathered and there is no clear line between the sea and the sky. Watching, Esca sees flashes of lightning, and hears, again, the distant rumble of thunder. The whole ocean is spread out before them, dwarfing the clouds. “I do not watch the birds, or the sky,” Muirġa says, close by Esca’s ear. “But I watch these storms.” He breathes deep, and, unthinking, Esca imitates him. “I like to scent the storm on the wind,” Muirġa whispers. 

There is a shout from below; they both turn to see Áed and Calcach climbing towards them, painted again and dressed. Muirġa’s mien changes instantly; it is uncanny how quickly he goes from a lover, a friend, sharing intimacies, to the _rí féinne_. There is a short, sharp pinch in Esca’s chest, but he suppresses it and looks around for his shirt, discarded on the grass.

“Ho!” Calcach says, and his grin is knowing but kind. Esca musters a smile, wishing his face did not feel so hot. He is not ashamed; but he still feels a constraint between them. “Muirġa! The bee hunters have found a new hive!”

Muirġa, in the act of wrapping his loincloth, straightens immediately. His transformation is complete. Esca barely hears the questions and answers; he only hears the crisp tone of Muirġa’s voice. He hands Muirġa his shirt, and watches him pull it on. Then Áed recalls him to his own task, handing Esca his other boot as Esca finishes fastening his breeches. Then he remembers the tears of Niamh and scrambles in the grass for them. 

“Are you well, brother?” Áed says, a hand on Esca’s shoulder. His voice is as kind as Calcach’s smile was, but still Esca feels another wave of heat wash over him just as his fingers close over the last of the pebbles. 

“Yes,” he says, and then musters the courage to look at Áed. “I am sorry for last night. I meant no disrespect to your _feann_ or to any of you.”

“It is of no moment,” Áed says, shaking his head. “Do not let it worry you.” 

Calcach looks over. “There was no disrespect, brother.” He reaches out to clap Esca on his other shoulder. “Come, we need all the men we can muster.” He and Muirġa break into a run; Esca follows more slowly, fitting the pebbles into his pouch once again, and Áed keeps pace with him.

“Do not let it worry you,” Áed says again, quietly. “Our ways are not yours, and we forget ourselves.”

“I forgot myself,” Esca says. 

“Perhaps that is not a bad thing,” Áed says, then hesitates; Esca looks over at him, then halts as Áed wrestles for words. Finally Áed says, “We have had some conversation about you, my brother.”

“I would expect so,” Esca says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. 

“You worry a great deal,” Áed says. “You are happy with Muirġa, anyone can see it, but you have an ache that darkens your heart. For a time last night your heart was light.”

“It often is, with Muirġa,” Esca says, unguarded for a moment, feeling a smile begin. 

“Perhaps in time your heartache will ease,” Áed says gently, squeezing Esca’s shoulder again. 

“It must be so.” Esca grips Áed’s forearm, and Áed gives his shoulder a gentle shake and releases him. 

“We have also spoken of the initiation,” he says next. 

“Yes,” Esca says. “Muirġa told me.” He pushes down his feelings; Áed is almost as observant as Muirġa. “I understand you have agreed to – to–”

“When we spoke, my cousin and I,” Áed says softly, “he said this: that it must be your choice.” He pauses and looks Esca up and down. “Though what he asks of me is an honour, and though he did not say it to us, Calcach and I understand that perhaps your choice will be him.”

“He said this to me. I said no.” Esca takes a breath. “He is the _rí féinne_. He has a duty. This I understand. I too have a duty: to him. To our – to the _teglach_. To the _feann_. So that none will speak against him.”

“Those who would speak against him will find other causes,” Áed says. “It need not be–”

“It will not be on my account, not for this,” Esca says. “I have caused enough mischief, I think.”

“It cannot all be laid at your feet,” Áed says. “Any who seek new ways are seen as mischief-makers by some. You are the embodiment of a new way, my brother, simply because you draw breath here. Thus, if this is a new way that you and Muirġa both desire–”

“No,” Esca says. 

Áed stares at him for a long moment; the frown on his face reminds Esca of nothing so much as his cousin’s. 

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Esca says, looking Áed in the eye. “I have done this before, when I did not choose, when it was not important. This I choose, and I choose because it is important to him.” His mouth is suddenly dry. “For him.”

“You are a man of honour and courage,” Áed says in a low voice. 

“No,” Esca says, not sure whether to laugh or cry, and once again he lets himself be honest here, in this at least, where he can be. “No. I wander in the darkness, Áed, feeling my way from point to point.”

“Then someone watches over you,” Áed says. “Manann, perhaps; the grandmother knows it–”

Esca shakes his head. 

“On the night, you will not wander,” Áed says. “Come, Esca.” He pulls Esca close and kisses him, full on the mouth, and then on his forehead. “I too was initiated into the _feann_ the night I was to visit the strand,” he says, putting his arm around Esca’s shoulders. Esca opens his mouth, but Áed puts his finger there. “Yes, this is why he asked me. Iuuar was – it was Iuuar who initiated me. He understood that I could not spend, as you cannot.”

Esca feels his lips tremble beneath Áed’s finger, and he holds back the smile as best he can. He knows Muirġa can bring him to hardness with a glance, can make him spend with seemingly only a touch. “So that is why it cannot be Muirġa,” he whispers against Áed’s finger. 

He sees Áed’s mouth tremble, just a twitch, in response, and he gives Esca’s shoulders a slight shake. “Here, _a thaisce_ , listen,” he says, and in a very few words he acquaints Esca with Iuuar’s approach that long-ago night, and his own intentions. Esca feels the heat mounting into his face, but he is grateful nonetheless, and grateful too that he has seen Áed with his spear in hand: Áed’s passion is that of a man, at least, and thus not foreign to him. “The ritual requires that a _fenned_ spend within you,” Áed concludes. “That is all. If Manann is willing, it will not take long.”

Esca wishes for a moment that Muirġa was there to laugh with him over yet another ritual. Then he looks at Áed, earnest and worried, and instead of laughing he says, “Thank you. This cannot be comfortable for you.” 

Áed looks up at that, startled, something at the back of his eyes Esca doesn’t understand. “You… are kind,” he adds, his voice halting as he tries to make sense of Áed’s expression. 

“We both understand duty, son of Cunoval,” Áed says, his face softening, and although his words are formal, his eyes are warm again and rob the words of any sting. “I have said it is an honour, _a thaisce_. More so, now that we have spoken. Do not let this add to the ache that darkens your heart.”

“I will not,” Esca says. “I am grateful. I – I cannot–” His throat closes suddenly, trying to hold back the emotions that threaten again to overwhelm him at the thought of his treachery, at the thought of the betrayal and lies, and the thought of honour, and how many ways there are to define it – but only one way that he can see to go forward.

Áed, misunderstanding – because he _cannot_ understand, Esca thinks shakily – takes him by both shoulders, kisses him again, on the forehead, and squeezes him briefly. “Come, _a chara_ ,” he says. “Let us go harry the bees.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _I treasure the stars_  
>  _Well, always have_  
>  _I don't remember where we were_  
>  _Don't think we'd return_  
>  _These moments are fleeting as they are pure_  
>     ~ _The End Is Nigh_ , Bell X1  
> 


	12. It's all the same to share the pain with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I have written before the "gap" that I need to work on. I'm posting it now to give myself some incentive - I'm going on vacation and I'm going to write this connecty bit if it kills me! :D :D :D
> 
> ETA: DONE!

Muirġa and Calcach are overseeing the _fennidi_ , having sent some to fetch pots and more help from the dún and others to fetch water to begin to fill the large pot that is already in the _teg_ at the clay pit. Esca volunteers for the latter, running back and forth to the stream. On one of his trips, he stumbles up the bank to come face to face with Iuuar and, beyond him, Marcus, with the white mare. Four large pots are strapped across the horse's back in baskets. Esca’s eyes meet Marcus’; Marcus' gaze is cold and disdainful. It is a welcome reminder; it helps Esca to rein himself in and look back at Marcus with, he hopes, the same disdain.

“We put your slave to work, _a ṁac_ ,” Iuuar says. “Or your horse, to the point.”

“It was well thought of,” Esca says. “The horses too should earn their keep.” This makes several _fennidi_ laugh. 

“Here!” Iuuar barks to Marcus, and says a few words to him in the Roman tongue, pointing to Esca. “Fetch water!” To Urḃolg, he says, “Show him where to go. Esca will bring the horse along with us to the hive.”

Esca feels a coil of panic in his stomach; he is doubly grateful for his own caution, and for those _fennidi_ who have been keeping Marcus busy. He had suspected Nechtann understood more of the Roman tongue than he pretended; now he knows at least one of Nechtann's close advisors speaks enough to supervise Marcus. He hopes it is only Iuuar; he doubts very much that Marcus would get far with Iuuar, or that Iuuar would interrogate Marcus except under Nechtann's orders, and that circumstance, he knows, would not have gone unremarked among the _fennidi_. Once Marcus has disappeared over the ravine bank with Urḃolg, Iuuar turns his attention to Muirġa. “Are you well, _a ṁac_?”

“I am well, _deartháir mór_ ,” [[41]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503814#note41) Muirġa says. “Does it go well with you?”

“It goes better now,” Iuuar says. “It is an old hive, they say. They have hunted it for many a day. The women are pleased. Bearrach says your grandmother smiles.” He glances over at Esca and there, again, is a smile on Iuuar’s face, seemingly for him. 

“Then there will be many _eonnrónta_ next spring,” Calcach says, “if the bees favour us this summer.” 

Iuuar nods. “So says Bearrach. Where are Onnist [[42]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503814#note42) and Domech?”

The two bee hunters, both who seem to be of an age with Esca yet are not well known to him since they are wont to wander off by themselves, stand from where they have been crouched by a pot within a basket that contains some embers from the fire. “The fire pot is ready,” Onnist says.

“Will these be enough?” Muirġa says, pointing to the pots on the horse's back. Onnist cocks his head but his companion nods, threading a pole through the basket handles. They each take hold of the pole, swinging the fire pot between them. 

Esca finds he can keep pace with the horse, now, after this time with hunting with Muirġa and the _feann_ , although they both fall behind the _fennidi_ once they begin to run. Iuuar easily keeps up with the pace set by Onnist and Domech and, of course, Muirġa. Áed has been left behind, partly, Esca suspects, to keep the eye on Marcus that Iuuar cannot supply at the moment. It takes some time to reach the hive; it is deep in the woods, in a tall old tree that has split in half. There is honeycomb bulging from the split, no more than the height of two men from the ground, a sign, Onnist says, that the hive is large and healthy. 

Several _fennidi_ begin to feed the fire in the fire pot; others cut green wood and strip the branches off before putting them into the fire pot. As smoke begins to rise from the fire and the green wood there, Muirġa, Iuuar, and the bee hunters put their heads together, walking around the tree and looking up through it. Calcach joins them, and Esca hears him ask if the bees have been consulted. Iuuar nods: “Bearrach has asked.” 

“Let us get to it then,” Muirġa says, and that is clearly the signal: Onnist and Domech spring into action, stripping their leggings and coats and climbing the tree with their fingers and toes. When Onnist reaches shoulder height, another _fenned_ hands him a smoldering green branch that he holds until Domech reaches a point above him. It takes some time for Domech to position himself, but then he whistles softly and Onnist climbs up to hand him the branch. Another _fenned_ climbs below him, and the _fennidi_ on the ground begin to hand up the green branches that Domech uses to waft smoke into the hive.

After a time, the bees begin to buzz around them, but not angrily; Esca knows that is a good sign. The _fennidi_ are quick and quiet, keeping the smoking branches rotating through the hands of those clinging to the tree and those tending the pot. Finally Domech whistles twice. Esca peers up through the leaves and sees Domech seemingly draped in bees, as if he wears an extra shirt. Esca shudders involuntarily, but Domech seems not to notice. A long, sharp knife is handed up and, after it, the first of the empty pots, balanced on Onnist’s head. The smell of honey begins to mingle with that of the smoke; some of the bees buzzing sleepily around begin to sound louder. 

“It is the honey,” Calcach whispers. “They seek to store it again. Did your _fine_ do this?”

“They did,” Esca whispers in return. “But I never went.” 

The pot is full already; it gets passed down and a new one is passed up. Esca helps to secure it to the straps on the horse. The pot is full of honey and comb; the smell is intoxicating and the bees near them on the ground begin to buzz sleepily around it. 

Soon another pot is filled, then another. The bees are growing restive; Iuuar and Muirġa confer for a few seconds and then Muirġa whistles twice. Domech, who is reaching an arm's length into the tree now, pulls out another slice of comb and drops it in the waiting pot, then whistles twice in return. Everything is passed back down; the knife, dripping with honey, is handed to Muirġa. When all the _fennidi_ are on the ground again, they circle around Muirġa, who thanks the bees for their gift, and then touches the knife to the mouth of each man in the circle. Esca, watching, realises tardily that Muirġa is waiting on him, but before he can move, Muirġa comes to him, pressing the flat of the flint blade to his mouth, then pressing it also to the horse's mouth. Esca sees Iuuar, watching Muirġa, raise an eyebrow but then nod slowly, his approval plain for Muirġa’s improvisation: of course the horse must be included in the ritual, but the Tæsgali do not keep horses. Onnist and Iuuar help Domech remove his bee-laden shirt, all moving carefully. Just as carefully, the shirt is placed on the ground at the foot of the tree, and the bees begin to rise from it in uneven spirals.

Esca licks the trace of honey from his lips as he helps tighten the straps holding the pots on. The white horse is the quieter of the two, and only fidgets a little as they work. The green branches are placed in the fire pot, and it is again strung on the pole to be carried. But this time Onnist and Domech do not carry it; they move to the head of the group, to run with Iuuar and Muirġa, to have the pride of place. 

They leave the hive as quietly as they arrived, and by the time they are far enough away to speak, the _fennidi_ are already well ahead. Esca and the horse move more slowly this time, so the hard-won honey doesn’t spill from the pots. After a time, Calcach drops back to join him. It is the first new hive they have found this summer, although two others have been marked from the summer before, but it had enough honey for two. “Bearrach will be well pleased,” he concludes; clearly Bearrach is in charge of the mead-making, which, when Esca thinks about it, is not surprising. 

Calcach makes conversation all the way back; Esca tries his best to hold up his end but at the same time his mind tugs at all the rest of it: Marcus, the Eagle, the _feann_ , the initiation, the strand... even the horse, that makes light work of hauling the honey that would have taken the remainder of the day had they hauled it by hand. But the Tæsgali have no stables, no extra grain for horses, no way to winter them. He snorts, imagining squeezing the horses through the low, long entrance to the _borra_. Surprised, Calcach looks over at him, and Esca shakes his head. “I'm sorry,” he says. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Your worry,” Calcach says, nodding, and Esca has to fight the urge to laugh. There is a diagnosis, he thinks, and now the cure can begin. “We would ease it, if we could.”

Esca is immediately sober, and ashamed of himself. Perhaps he has been left too cynical.

But it doesn’t matter, and that truth brings him up face first against the stone wall of reality. None of it matters. And yet there is no way to bridge the distance between what he must do, and what they – all of them – think they can do.

“I know,” he says, looking ahead and not at Calcach. “I know.” 

Calcach puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. The horse stops too, curving his neck around to lip at Esca’s neck. Esca reaches up to pat her, looking at Calcach all the while, keeping his eyes steady. 

“We know this,” Calcach says. “We have seen it, brother. I know you have trust in your heart. Let that trust grow. I know it is difficult. But give us – give _him_ – the chance to show you.”

Esca swallows, and his fingers tighten on the horse’s neck. “I am,” he says at last. “I – I am.” He has to fight to say the words, and then no more will come, even though he wills it. But what else is left to say?

“ _A chara_ ,” Calcach says, his voice quiet. “This is enough for now.” He pulls Esca into a quick embrace. “I do not mean to add to your worry.” Esca closes his eyes without meaning to, and feels Calcach’s lips on his forehead. “Come,” Calcach says, his lips moving against Esca’s skin. “I am delaying us.”

The rest of their journey is in silence, but they are not far away. From a distance, Esca sees figures crest the hill; he knows one is Muirġa. As he and Calcach approach, he sees he is right: it is Muirġa, standing and watching, Iuuar next to him. He is wearing fresh paint, and his expression is as inscrutable as it ever was, but Esca feels the warmth of his gaze nonetheless. Then Muirġa looks at Calcach.

“We were careful not to spill any,” Calcach says. 

“Bearrach awaits us,” Iuuar says. “We have much to do.”

Esca follows them with the horse, and when they reach the fire, they decant some from each pot into the larger pot that will remain at their small camp before putting the pots back into their places on the horse. He guesses Bearrach will return to brew the mead there. Since the pots are less full now, the mare can move more quickly. Muirġa allows Esca to lead her, keeping pace with the pair of them. Somewhere behind them, Esca knows, Marcus follows, surrounded by several _fennidi_. Marcus has not met Esca’s eyes, and for that Esca is grateful. He has made sure, himself, not to appear too interested in where Marcus is, especially now that he knows Iuuar has at least some of the Roman tongue. 

Muirġa does not talk, but from time to time he brushes Esca’s free hand with his own. On the other side of the horse, Iuuar keeps pace with them, glancing at the pots from time to time. When finally they reach the dún, many stand outside, watching, and Esca is reminded of his and Marcus’ arrival. But this time the faces watching are happy, even joyful; and this time Muirġa’s son runs to greet them, hugging Esca and smiling up at his father. Muirġa smiles back, a quick grin, and rests his hand on his son’s shoulder for a brief moment. Outside Nechtann’s _teg_ , Bearrach waits, in front this time, Nechtann behind her, and her two daughters with her. She holds a long wooden stick with a flat end. Esca dimly recalls his mother having a similar stick, but he remembers little of a ritual; the stick was kept alongside the stone cupboard where cheese and dried food was stored, flour and such. For the Seal People, it is clear this is a ritual, and of some importance. Bearrach is speaking of the bees; again, Esca dimly recalls his mother speaking of consulting the bees. That it was a woman’s custom, he knew; that this is women’s magic, that crosses _finte_ , he knows now. 

When Bearrach finishes speaking, she leads the way in silence to the _borra_ , and, not much to Esca’s surprise now – he remembers the lower room, and the pots lining the wall – leads them down the narrow steps to that low, dark room. Esca is pulled along with Calcach, following Muirġa and Iuuar; he supposes the _teglach_ have first place, but others of the _fine_ also follow behind, ranging themselves on the steps when the room is filled. There are more pots than before, and it is evident that they’re filled with hot water, since even in the torchlight he can see the steam rising from them. The _fine_ must have been working all the day to heat so much water. The bee hunters seem to know what is expected: they lift a pot of honey on Bearrach’s command and pour, again on her command. The comb is retrieved as the honey pours out; Uiamh stands next to her mother, collecting the pieces. Esca feels his face warm as he thinks of at least one use they have for that wax.

The rest of them are silent, watching, as Bearrach stirs each pot. Úlla follows her, carefully placing a woven lid of dried grasses or rushes on each pot as Bearrach finishes stirring it. The lids are cunningly woven, with rims like basket bottoms, and then Esca feels foolish, a smile finding its way to his face: they are basket bottoms, of course, turned over. Such a simple thing, yet so hard to see when expecting something else. 

A hand finds his, fingers brushing his own, and he glances over to see Muirġa watching him, not the ritual. He captures Muirġa’s fingers and squeezes. Muirġa turns his gaze back to the ritual but Esca sees one side of his mouth lift in a small, private smile. Soon enough, it seems, the ritual is over; at no signal Esca can discern, everyone begins to leave again, except the members of the _teglach_. Uiamh and Úlla confer over the pot of wax in low tones, while Bearrach has words with Nechtann, Bridei standing just behind him and glowering at everyone. Allidd and Iuuar stand near the steps, also talking in low voices. Esca feels ridiculously out of place, but Muirġa, Calcach, and Áed stand quietly with the bee hunters, waiting. So Esca does too. At last Bearrach turns from Nechtann, and it almost seems to be a dismissal; Nechtann leaves without a backward glance, followed by Bridei. Bearrach gestures to the bee hunters and says a few brief words to them before dismissing them, as well. Bearrach looks across the room at Allidd and Iuuar but it is Iuuar whose eyes meet hers, Iuuar who nods, a small gesture and easy to miss. Then he follows the bee hunters up and out, Allidd bringing up the rear.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

41. _Deartháir mór_ : big brother; this is an honorific to indicate both Iuuar's status and close relationship.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503814#orig_41) to the story.

42. Or as we would say today, Angus.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/41503814#orig_42) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the bees. SO MUCH BEES. There are so many legends, particularly in the British Isles, related to bees. The bees are consulted to this day in some pockets on matters of importance to the home and family.  
>   
>   
>   
>  _It's all the same_  
>  _To share the pain with me_  
>   
>     ~ _Me In Honey_ , R.E.M.  
> 


	13. Waiting in this empty world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connecty bit done - achievement unlocked!

That seems to be the signal for the rest; Calcach brushes Esca’s shoulder even as Muirġa turns to dip his head towards Bearrach. She nods, her face impassive, but it is evidently a dismissal. Esca follows Muirġa back up the stairs and out into the sunlight along with Calcach and Áed.

“We are well ahead for winter now,” Calcach says, and Muirġa nods. His attention seems to be on the sea. Áed glances at the sun and then at Calcach; again Esca feels that he is missing something.

“It is best to go now,” Áed says, a note in his voice that is more assertive than Esca is accustomed to hearing from him. “We have some time before the sun sets.”

“Let us gather our hounds,” Calcach says, resting a hand on Muirġa’s shoulder. “We will await you at your _teg_ , _a flatha_.”

Then Esca understands: the farewell is now, not at sunset. It will be better to make time during the daylight.

“I will miss you,” he says, because he does not know how much time they really have and he knows how valuable it is.

Muirġa’s shoulders relax and he turns towards Esca. Esca sees his throat convulse as he swallows. “My archer,” he says, and his voice is low and hoarse. “I know you understand, but if I spend so much as one more heartbeat within reach of you, the _teglach_ will be shamed.”

“ _A flatha_ ,” Esca says quietly. He has no chance to say more: Muirġa’s mouth is on his even as Esca pulls Muirġa close, then closer still. Muirġa’s lips are warm, his tongue eager; and Esca drinks him in, the smell, the taste, even the sounds they both make.

“You see,” Muirġa says, panting slightly, his lips now at Esca’s ear. “You see. Some of the _fennidi_ said I should have bedded you when you arrived. That this thirst I felt would be quenched, and dissipate.”

“I have heard it is often so,” Esca says. He pauses, then plunges, even though the danger of being completely honest with Muirġa grows with every confidence. “For myself, however, it seems only to grow.”

Muirġa’s answer is yet another embrace, another kiss more passionate than before. Then all his muscles tense; Esca is prepared, then, when Muirġa breaks away, whirling on his heel, and stalking up the hill. He does not look back while Esca watches; but at last Esca too turns away, his vision blurring, as he stares out at the far distant sea, heedless of the tears.

Up until now he has felt adrift. A part of that is his own reticence: he is aware he is keeping himself apart from them, just as he kept himself apart from the Romans who enslaved him. He has felt nowhere was home for many years. But now he has an anchor, Muirġa; yet that very anchor is dragging him down, and it is both uncanny and alarming. For many years he has been the only person he could trust, and that has not changed. Nor will it change in the time he has left; it cannot.

He takes a deep breath, then another, then uses the heel of his hand to blot the wetness from the corners of his eyes. The sun is hanging fat and low over the sea, a bright circle in a haze of clouds so distant they are formless. There are rocks in the waves, or perhaps seals. He watches and is rewarded: two rocks disappear, and another pops up where they had been. Seals, then, and he shakes his head at himself: it’s not as if it’s a surprise, after all.

He ventures further, beyond the headland, towards the west and the setting sun. He has ranged far down the shore to the east, beyond the point that reaches the mouth of the small river where the clay deposits lie, though he did not know it at the time. Now he goes the other way, and he tries not to think, in his melancholy, that he is moving towards the summer lands. Even his uncle, who learned from the druids, had a note in his voice more fanciful than real when he spoke of the summer lands, and Esca was raised to think of them as a story only, a legend, not a place. But for the first time, with the haze on the horizon and the sun hanging almost upside down, he thinks perhaps they exist, or they could exist here, for the people of the seals, if for no one else.

A seal snorts from the water, startling him. It almost seems as if the seals are following him, keeping pace, although he knows it is only his imagination. In the path of light from the setting sun, they look more like rocks than ever, moving rocks that appear and disappear. His uncle told tales of stones that moved at night, appearing and disappearing, and Esca wonders now if that tale came from such a place as this.

The headland has been sloping downward for some time. As the seals play in the water, moving with the sun, Esca follows them down the slope to a small sandy beach. The water is shallower here and the seals venture closer in even as he watches. Then he comes around the edge of the bluff where it drops the last steep bit to the beach and sees a small _teg_.

It must belong to a member of the _fine_ but he cannot think who would live out here alone, without protection. It must be someone with no fear. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he has the answer: Iuuar. Now he also recalls some of the _feann_ talking about the _teg_ to the west; they must have meant this. At the same time he understands he is trespassing, and he turns to climb the slope, only to see Iuuar himself at the top of the bluff, standing and watching, not Esca, but the seals beyond him.

Esca climbs quickly to join him, and Iuuar nods at him, still looking at the water. After a few moments he says to Esca, “Do they follow or lead?”

“I was wondering myself,” Esca says. “Do you live here? I did not mean to intrude.”

“There is no harm in you, son of Cunoval,” Iuuar says, finally looking at him rather than the seals.

There is, Esca thinks, but again he cannot voice this, his betrayal. It is his own burden to carry, and his own secret to keep.

“At any rate, I did not mean to intrude,” he says. “I beg your pardon and I wish you a good night.”

“Stay a while,” Iuuar says. “I have not had my supper, nor have you.” He nods at the seals. “They seem pleased to think of this.”

Esca follows, wondering, but knowing better than to refuse, although his hunger is small. Iuuar occupies a place apart in the hierarchy of the _fine_ and that of the _feann_ too, and his words are met with as much deference as Muirġa’s or Nechtann’s, and more than Bridei’s. As they make their way to Iuuar’s _teg_ , one of the seals draws in closer. Iuuar pauses a long moment to watch it, and the seal seems to stare back at him.

“It is as I said,” Iuuar says quietly. “They are pleased.”

Iuuar’s _teg_ is larger than Muirġa’s, but that too makes sense: if Iuuar lives alone, he has need of things that Muirġa and the others have no need of, like cooking pots. Iuuar has a large bronze cooking pot, chased around the rim; it reminds Esca suddenly of his mother, and his tears, close to the surface still, well up in his eyes. He blinks them back and concentrates on the pot. This one is riveted lengthwise, so the pot has rays of rivets from top to bottom, and two large rings bound in with wire. [[43]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#note43) His mother’s was made of smaller sheets, riveted horizontally; he remembers his father’s brother mending it once with iron rivets while he and the other children watched, fascinated, the red hot metal handled with great skill.[[44]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#note44)

“We cook still with our own metal,” Iuuar says, following his gaze. “The _finte_ to the south use iron now, but it does not fare well here.”

“Not all,” Esca says. “My mother had such a pot as yours, passed down from her mother, and beyond that.”

“This was… a gift of the sea,” Iuuar says after a moment, pitching his voice louder - or perhaps it is only Esca’s imagination.

Esca nods, small remnants of things heard about the fires among the _fennidi_ suddenly making sense. “I have heard it said the sea brings you what you need.”

Again Iuuar seems to hesitate, then shrugs. “I too have heard this.” He throws some handfuls of wild grains into the pot, and some dried fish along with water, and lifts it to the fire, hanging it from the supports there. “I have heard it said that the _finte_ to the south do not eat fish.”

“We do,” Esca says. “We did. But it was not common in our dún; mostly we ate fish when we caught them as we hunted.”

“And you raised cattle, is it not so?”

“Yes, and sheep.”

“You were tied to the land, then.”

It is an echo of Muirġa’s conversation, and Esca is careful in his answer. “Bound to the land, my mother’s brother would have said.”

The fish stew, heating, is filling the _teg_ with a savory aroma. Esca has found the Seal People not only dry the fish, they smoke it, much as his own people smoked some meats for keeping.

“I have heard it said the Brigantes welcome druids,” Iuuar says, busying himself with wooden cups and a skin flask. “Was your mother’s brother such a one?”

“He spent much time with them, but he left when my mother married my father,” Esca says, wondering at this turn of conversation. “He knew much, but he was no druid, and would not be called such.” He takes the cup Iuuar hands him and sips: it is mead.

“Nor should he,” Iuuar says, nodding. He leans over to check the stew, stirring it with another metal instrument, a long thin paddle. “Would you eat, son of Cunoval?”

“I would, and I thank you,” Esca says, but he waits until Iuuar has also served himself, and lifted the spoon to his lips, before he too eats. He is the guest, but he is also the younger, and he amuses himself for a brief moment with this question of manners: how he would like to have posed it to his mother.

While they eat, Iuuar talks of druids and their influence in the southern finte. Esca does not know much, but he knows more than Iuuar, that much is clear, and he has had some conversation, and overheard others, with Marcus and among the Romans.

“I have heard it said they intend to drive the Romans from this land,” Iuuar says at last, wiping his mouth. “That they stir the _finte_ into assaults on Roman forts.”

“They do,” Esca says. “The Roman slave was injured in just such an attack.”

“But they were not successful.”

“No,” Esca says. “They have discipline and rules, and above all resources. If they are well-led, it is difficult for us to overcome them, and these were led well by the Roman.” He jerks his head in the direction of the dún.

“If you said such a thing to some in our _fine_ ,” Iuuar says, “they would call you traitor.”

Instantly all of Esca’s nerves are afire: the panic lights in his belly and tongues of flame leap scorching into his throat. He has to swallow twice, and then again, to be able to form words. But before he can, Iuuar, staring at the pot, shakes his head. “Yet these are the words they need to hear. Throwing ourselves at them will do no good. Plans are needed.”

Esca can breathe again, but still he chooses his words as carefully as before. “Muirġa told me of destroying crops to drive the Romans back.”

“Ah, the People from the Morning,” Iuuar says. “It is one way. The Romans did not expect it, and they had no recourse: you cannot bring back that which is burned to ash, and even they knew there would be no food elsewhere.”

As a policy, Esca can’t fault it; but he has lived through the other side of it, the Romans burning the dún where he grew up, the cattle screaming in the byre as the roof fell in on them, the smell of smoke and ash and burning flesh above all…

He shakes his head, aware that Iuuar notices much, although he is not looking at Esca but at his bowl. “There would not be,” he says. “They are practical in many ways, and you struck where it is most important: they cannot march without food.”

“Nor could you,” Iuuar says. “Your father commanded five hundred spears, is it not so?”

“It is,” Esca says, having the feeling once more that Iuuar is fishing for something. He would help if he could, but he cannot know what is in Iuuar’s mind. That it is not suspicion about Esca, and his purpose, is all he can hope for now.

“That is a great deal of food,” Iuuar says, and he scrapes the bottom of his bowl thoughtfully. “And more to spare for the Romans.”

“Not from my father,” Esca says, feeling the heat rise in his face.

“Indeed,” Iuuar says. “I meant no insult, son of Cunoval.”

“Our _fine_ had seen it,” Esca says carefully; he must keep himself in check. “The _finte_ to the south of us, those who thought they could live with the Romans… at first they seem reasonable, the requests, but then it is more, and more, and when no more can be given, they come and take.” The thought had often occurred to him: Marcus’ uncle, the elder Aquila, lived and farmed land that belonged once to a family just like Esca’s. “My father, and others, refused from the beginning. The outcome was the same, of course.” He tries to speak lightly. “That they died with honor is all that can be said now.”

“That is not a small matter,” Iuuar says. “Honour is all a man has, in the end.”

A wave of sorrow rises in Esca’s throat, remorseless as the tide. He swallows hard and hopes desperately that it does not signal another bout of gasping for breath.

“These are sad memories,” Iuuar says. “I thank you for your indulgence, son of Cunoval. It is difficult to find reports that are not sullied by fear or other motives.”

Esca has other motives, he thinks, but none that affect how he reports on the Romans, so he can smile at Iuuar without guilt. Iuuar quirks a small smile back at him. “I will accompany you back to the dún,” he says, getting to his feet. “I am surprised no one of the _feann_ has sought you out.”

Privately, Esca thinks the same, but saying so seems almost disloyal to Muirġa, so he only shrugs, getting to his feet as well.

Outside, the sun has set, but there is still a glow in the sky. Iuuar looks out to the water again, but all that can be seen is one black lump that could indeed be a rock. The other two seem to have gone.

Their walk back to the dún is uneventful; Maróg meets them at the perimeter, by the racks of drying fish. Iuuar greets him, unsmiling, and thanks him, then turns to leave with a brief farewell to them both.

Thus is he handed off to his next minder, Esca thinks, and he has to suppress a smile. He already knows Maróg is more earnest than not, and Iuuar is as grave in truth as Muirġa seems to be; only now, Esca has seen that part of Muirġa that is filled with laughter, carefree. He helps Maróg fetch some water, and idly remarks on Iuuar’s _teg_ , so far from the rest. “That one will not be far from the sea,” Maróg says, but that is all he says, so Esca does not seek more.

Once the water is delivered, Maróg offers Esca a spot in his own _teg_. Esca prefers Muirġa’s but then he realizes that Maróg would probably have to sleep outside, since he has evidently been given the responsibility to look after Esca, and all at once it is no longer funny. So he accepts with a heavy heart but all appearance of gratitude: he wants to be alone, to think; yet he also dreads being alone, prey to unwelcome thoughts. After a small while, though, he is grateful: Maróg’s son chatters and plays, a welcome distraction, until his mother banks the fire and they all settle down to sleep.

The next day sees the men, the _fennidi_ as well as the initiates, ranging far and wide to gather wood for the fires. Esca elects to go east along the shoreline with several other men, including Maróg, and the white horse. They chance across a drift of old, bleached wood that looked like a huge heap of bones from a distance, and Esca has to shake the chill from his spine at the thought. But those he is with give that drift a wide berth so Esca does as well. He has not come across another seal skeleton, but the comb for Úlla is safely stored in Muirġa’s _teg_ , to wait on the night. He spends much of the rest of that day with the others and the horse, bringing wood in to stack in heaps on the strand where directed by Bridei and sometimes Nechtann.

That evening, Bearrach and her daughters serve a stew that reminds Esca of his childhood. Muirġa, Calcach, and Áed had killed a large stag, and Calcach and Áed brought it back to feed the _fine_. Bridei grumbles that it should have been saved for the feast, but Calcach only laughs and Áed says they promise still more. Esca walks with them, up the hill, as they leave the dún to rejoin Muirġa. Calcach tells Esca that Muirġa would probably have killed a bear, barehanded, by the time they catch up to him. Áed closes his hand over Esca’s upper arm, where his marks are. “His thoughts are with you,” he says, his lips close to Esca’s ear. “He promises a boar.”

Calcach joins in, close on Esca’s other side: “He says you have told him of a way to smoke it, like fish. He would like to eat this.”

“So would I,” Esca says fervently, and Áed and Calcach laugh. Esca misses them all for a sharp moment, Muirġa most of all.

“Are you well?” Áed asks, his eyes keen; and Esca nods; what else can he do?

Calcach follows with a question about Marcus: ”And the Roman? Is he troubling you?”

“He has been busy gathering wood,” Esca says. “I have not seen him.” This is true: Marcus had gone the other way, with the dark horse, and Esca had seen only glimpses of him twice.

“Then we can safely return to Muirġa,” Áed says.

“We can rescue the poor bear,” Calcach agrees, and they part thus, their laughter floating on the wind just as Uiamh arrives to bid Esca to come to eat. Again Muirġa’s son does not join them, nor had he helped them gather wood, and Esca wonders if he too is joined to the _teglach_ only by Muirġa, just as Esca is.

Afterwards he goes to check the horses as dusk falls; the exercise had been good for them and they eat the small handful of wild grains he brings them. Esca’s son joins him at the horses as if he had been watching for Esca and they discuss the horses for some little while, the boy asking questions that show he has been observing them with a keen eye. In the distance he sees Marcus moving wood about under the direction of one of the men, but he lets his eyes pass over him as if Marcus is no more than a tree.

As they pass a _teg_ a woman with dark hair and dark eyes motions to the boy. Esca says, “Sleep well, little seal,” and the woman glances at him as if surprised. She must be his mother, but even as Esca pauses, drawing breath to greet her, she sweeps the boy inside and is gone. Now he realizes he has seen her, now and again, with Úlla and Uiamh, and of course with her son. He also realizes, almost at the same moment, that she is never at the hearth in Nechtann's _teg_.

While he stands, puzzling this – does Nechtann disapprove? Or do women attend their mothers’ hearths in this _fine_? – Maróg joins him, a hand on his shoulder, asking about the horses. Once again Maróg invites him to sleep in his _teg_ and once again Esca agrees. Sleep does not come quickly on this night, even though the day had been hard. His blood seems to thrum in time with his heart: tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. Tomorrow he sees Muirġa again. Tomorrow he is initiated. Tomorrow is the next step to finding a way to bring Marcus back to his people.

But where his mind rests is Muirġa and all the discipline he has learned through the past years deserts him: no matter how often he tries to jerk his mind to its path, still he wonders what Muirġa is doing.

At last he must laugh at himself: there is nothing else he can do. Muirġa may be lying awake wondering the same, or he may be wrestling a bear, or he may be sleeping soundly by a fire. Esca’s thoughts change nothing. He turns himself over and wills himself to go asleep.

Maróg’s son wakens him the next morning, bouncing on his stomach; Esca’s sojourn in his father’s _teg_ has left the little one in no fear of the stranger. Esca bounces him a few times on his knee, as if the small boy is riding a horse, and he shrieks with laughter until his mother calls him over to eat, passing a bowl to Esca at the same time. It is some of the stew they had the night before, even better than it was, and for a moment he wonders how they came to have it until he realizes Bearrach must have shared much with the rest. Among the Brigantes, the rewards of the hunt were always shared, but to share the meal, that was not something his mother did except for the feasts and celebrations, when everyone shared and everyone cooked.

When they have finished, he thanks her and says good bye to the little one, who runs out after him, clinging to his father’s leg. Maróg stoops to disentangle him, then hugs him and passes him back to his mother. “Iuuar asked me to take you to the salt makers,” Maróg says. “We dry the salt and use it to trade.” He heaves two large skins of water, joined with a braid of sinew, to his shoulders and shrugs off Esca’s offer of aid. “If I grow tired, you may spell me,” he says. “There is little fresh water where they work, so we take it to them.”

“I have heard of your salt,” Esca says, and indeed he is interested to learn: the Romans take slaves to work the mines, including salt mines, and it is a fearsome thing. To make salt from the ocean seems wiser and less dangerous altogether.

They spend the morning at a strand among flat, dark clay platters where the sun dries the sea water, leaving its salt behind, a thin grey layer that the salt-makers scrape into dry baskets. There are men and women and even children, and two _fennidi_ who nod an acknowledgement to Maróg and Esca but do not leave their watch post on a small bluff.

Maróg shows Esca the platters, how they are arranged with the freshest sea water, filtered through baskets to remove sand and seaweed, at the uppermost platter, blocked off with a wooden plug. As the water begins to heat from the sun, it is guided into successive platters that are already hot from the sun’s rays. The salt makers fan the bottom platters to encourage the salt to dry faster, and the children take it in turns to spell their elders. They are at the mercy of the weather, Maróg says, and there are general nods. If it rains, the salt water in the platters is too weak for any use and they must start again. But in a good summer, and this has been a good summer, they will fill several large baskets with enough to salt their fish and meat and more to trade besides. Some are fanning the salt, some are weaving baskets, and two are shaping clay into more platters to dry in the sun. [[45]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#note45)

They eat at midday with the salt makers. The children are shy around Esca, but the adults venture a few questions about salt among the Brigantes. When he tells them the Brigantes usually traded for salt, they nod knowingly. They share fresh-caught fish wrapped in seaweed and steamed among the rocks of the fire. With the sun beginning to sink, Maróg says they must start back. The salt makers will return later, before sunset, to be in time for the feast. They have baskets of salt to bring and Maróg is tasked to bring one of them to Bearrach.

Esca knows it is too soon to look for Muirġa, since the third day will not end until sunset, but he tries to look without seeming to as they near the dún. But there is little activity; in fact, it is very quiet. Thus he knows Muirġa has not returned, for Muirġa brings his own energy wherever he goes. Maróg goes to take the basket of salt to Bearrach and Esca begs off; Bearrach sees as much as Muirġa, he thinks, and although she seems well disposed towards him, that doesn’t mean she won’t discern his secret. He wanders aimlessly towards the beach. Suddenly there’s a rustle behind him.

  
  


* * *

### Footnotes

43. Colm Moriarty, The Lisdrumturk Cauldron ( _Irish Archaeology_ , April 25, 2013). URL: http://irisharchaeology.ie/2013/04/the-lisdrumturk-cauldron/.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#orig_43) to the story.

44. Fintan O’Toole, Castlederg Bronze Cauldron ( _A History of Ireland in 100 Objects_ , Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, March 2013). URL: http://100objects.ie/castledergbronze-cauldron/.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#orig_43) to the story.

45. There are interesting pictures of salt works on the shores of Ireland in Muiris O’Sullivan and Liam Downey, “Salt-Making and Food Preservation” (2016: _Archaeology Ireland_ 30 (4): 21–25). Taking a leap here that there would be enough sunny weather for them to harvest salt; it was a labor intensive process and they were entirely dependent on the sun and the weather. On the other hand, we know they had dark stones and dark clay available in the area, and we know other areas in Ireland and England have shown evidence of prehistoric sea salt works. So why not?  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/47429734#orig_45) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _A kiss on the wind and we'll make the land_  
>  _Come over here to where When lingers_  
>  _Waiting in this empty world_  
>   
>     ~ _Jig of Life_ , Kate Bush  
> 


	14. Dreams about swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a version of the selkie myth I've been working on for several years. For readability, I divided it into two chapters, although it's one contiguous story. 
> 
> Rather than footnote every reference, I created an endnote at the end of this chapter. I am sad to confess my record keeping is a little spotty since I changed computers a couple of years ago and lost a couple of folders of bookmarks. But if you have questions, please email and I'll do my best to track down specifics.

“Are you coming?” Úlla says, sliding down the shingle in front of him, the stones skittering beneath her feet in her haste.

“Where? To what?”

“Before night falls, we gather on the strand to hear the story of our people,” Úlla says. “Then comes your initiation into the _feann_ , when the sun sets. Has no one told you of this? Not Muirġa? Not Allidd? Come, Nechtann will glare at us if we are last. ‘The _teglach_ must respect the _fine_.’” It is clear she is repeating something she has heard many times before.

“Muirġa told me of the initiation, before he left,” Esca says, following her and steadying her as she slides another length towards the sand. He does not tell her what Muirġa had really said, or any of the rest of it, and he tries himself not to think on it, although it is a vain hope.

Úlla is standing patiently, having come to a stop along with him, although he knows she is anxious not to be late. Her face is open, her expression worried. “Are you well?”

“I am,” Esca says, taking her arm again. “My apologies; I was thinking of the – the hunting.”

“You wish you could have gone,” she says, patting his hand, then taking it to pull him forward. “Soon it will be night. Tomorrow this will all be over.”

Esca follows her, his thoughts scattered: how is it she is reassuring him, when it ought to be him – and does it mean she is apprehensive? She sounds matter of fact but–

“Come,” she says again, pulling him along. “I have heard this story since I was a child, but you have not, and my father tells it well.”

They are among the last to arrive, but nonetheless those already on the strand make way for them. Úlla takes a place near the front with an authority that reminds him of her brother, as if it has never occurred to her that there would not be a place for her. He settles beside her, his thoughts still scattered, confused–

There is a murmur; from across the strand, Nechtann appears. Unusually, he is alone, carrying two pots of mead. He settles himself on a low rock just in front of them, looking them over. His gaze locks with Esca’s for a few moments with no acknowledgement at all. Esca gazes steadily back: Nechtann’s dislike, his distrust, is at least a concrete thing, something that is known, something Esca welcomes in the maelstrom of emotions he is floundering in.

“ _A ṁuinntear na ḟarraige_ , _a ṁuinntear na rónta._ [[46]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49212086#note46) Tonight you cross the strand into adulthood,” Nechtann intones. "Tonight our young warriors join the _feann_ that protects the people of the seals in full and in truth. Tonight, in honour of Lugos, and if Mannan, Cern, and Lugos smile, we add _eannrónta_[[47]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49212086#note47) to our _fine_ by Beltainne. Sit you here and listen to the tale of our ancestors, how we came to be the people of the seals from the people of the sea.”

There is a rock behind him; Esca settles himself against it. Next to him, Úlla glances over at him before looking back at her father. Esca finds her hand with his and strokes her fingers. She doesn’t look at him, but he sees the corner of her mouth nearer to him lift in a smile. Around them, the initiates into the _feann_ are also sitting. Some are paired, like Esca and Úlla. According to Muirġa, some choose before the night; others run up onto the strand and take their fortune as they find it.

“There was once a king among the Fomori, Balor Birugderc, who stole the white sea-bear of Goibhniu from under the eye of Ciann his brother. But many years before this, when Balor’s only child, Ethnea, was born, a prophecy was given: Balor could not die, save at the hands of her son. This was in the old times, when such things were possible.”

Úlla leans over to Esca to whisper, “You know Balor?”

Esca shakes his head. "Not by this name.”

“This is the story of the Seal People,” she says, moving closer. "Allidd also tells it. When we were younger, Muirġa would sometimes tell it to us, only to my sister and me, with voices and sounds.”

“I would like that.” He can imagine Muirġa giving such a story, now that he has seen him relaxed, smiling, even mischievous; and his heart swells within his chest.

She smiles at him, then, a real smile. “I did as well. If we – if _eannrónta_ come of this, it is my hope he will remember this and tell it again to them. He is not so free with Maelhoch as he was with us when Uiamh and I were younger.”

“Mael...” It takes Esca a long moment to realize she is speaking of Muirġa’s son. “I have not known his name.”

“It is an old belief, that the father should not name the son before he becomes a man,” she whispers. Her face grows sad. "Bridei says it is why Muirne died, because Nechtann took too much interest in Muirġa.”

Esca squeezes her hand and says, without thought, “I cannot promise that.” Even as he says it, his heart falls: he will not be here to take an interest at all.

But Úlla turns her fingers in his to squeeze his hand in response, and her face lightens. “This is also how I wish it to be.”

Nechtann has finished detailing the wonders of Balor’s island kingdom, and the prosperity that followed upon his theft of the white sea-bear, which resembled the spotted sea-bears of the coast and lonely isles, as Nechtann tells it, but was larger, with a coat of pure white. Esca tries to rein in his unruly thoughts, but he can’t keep back a smile: the undiscerning gods apparently rewarded her owner with ample food and drink, no matter how she was acquired.

Meanwhile, according to Nechtann, Balor had taken the precaution of hiding Ethnea away on a remote island, ringed with rocks and whirlpools, where she was attended by twelve maidens of her own age. “As she grew in years, so she grew in beauty,” Nechtann says. “But none saw her save her attendants, her father, and the birds of the air and the animals of the sea.”

Úlla squeezes Esca’s fingers again and Esca imitates a gull’s squawk under his breath that makes Úlla quickly cover her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“But now, you will recall, Balor’s theft of the white sea-bear drew the attention of others. Many feared Balor because he could not be killed. But Ciann was angry, and shamed, by the theft under his nose, and he vowed to Goibhniu that he would retrieve her. He discovered that Balor was keeping the white sea-bear on an island that was surrounded by many rocks and whirlpools. He tried to approach the island by curragh, but it foundered on the rocks and he ha to swim back to shore. He narrowly escaped being drawn into a whirlpool and drowned. His plight seemed hopeless. He rested on the shore and stared across the water to the island. It seemed to float between the sea and the sky, for it was surrounded by mist.

“He was desolate. He spoke his despair to the sea: his honour demanded that he retrieve the white sea-bear and restore her to her rightful owner. The waves crashed around him; then a skin washed up at his feet. It was the speckled skin of a seal, shimmering golden brown in the sunlight. He pulled it from the water and draped it around himself and suddenly he had become a seal, flopping on his belly on the rocks.”

The crowd around Nechtann has grown silent; when Esca looks over at Úlla, she is leaning forward, her eyes shining. There is much he doesn’t know about the Seal People, he realises. The seals are their kin, yet they wear seal skins and use them for oil. But the skins they wear are grey and black, with large spots; the seal in the cave, Muirġa’s grandmother, was a different colour, brown and light grey, with smaller spots and speckles. Esca’s _fine_ was not near the sea, and they only travelled to the shore for ceremonies, so Esca’s experience with sea life is very little.

“Ciann discovered the skin of the seal allowed him to swim, and play among the waves, and dive deep into the sea, like the seals who watched him from afar. Even the spotted sea-bears, that usually keep to themselves, alone on small islets far offshore, came in close enough to watch Ciann learn to swim and play in the waves. Soon enough some of the seals joined him. They taught him to dive deep, rolling under the waves and riding them in to the shore.”

“It was a joyous time,” Úlla says, and she is not the only one. Nechtann’s face creases into a smile, and he repeats the phrase, lifting his arms up high.

“The people of the sea remind us also of joy,” he says. “The sea grants us all we need for our bodies and our hearts. Now. It was not long before Ciann realised he could approach the island, and when he looked at the island through the eyes of the seal he now was, there was no mist around it, and the way through the rocks was clear. Some seals accompanied him and showed him how to ride the whirlpools. He played with them along the way but he did not forget his goal, to retrieve the white sea-bear and restore the honour of his name.

“When he came onto land, on the island, he shook himself and the skin of the seal shuddered off him.” Nechtann shudders exaggeratedly and Esca sees many among the crowd imitate him. “He put it carefully by, for it was a gift of the sea and he did not want to seem ungrateful. He then set off to explore. He came upon a cove under a great wall of rock. That cove was blocked to the sea and in it he found the white sea-bear. He set about learning how to free her when he was interrupted by shouts across the water. He hid himself among the rocks and watched as Balor came ashore with skin bags and pots and disappeared up a pathway through the rocks. When the sun moved low in the sky, Balor returned to the cove, his hands empty, and spoke to the white sea-bear before returning to his curragh and departing. Ciann stood among the rocks and watched the path of the curragh as Balor wended his way among the rocks and whirlpools.

“But now Ciann was curious, and wondered if Balor had a storehouse on the island. At this time, most had forgotten Balor’s daughter, and Ciann was among these. Accordingly, when he reached the top of the path and saw a tall _borra_ and some dwellings before him, and smelled meat roasting, he was shocked beyond measure. He drew near and watched, and before long saw Ethnea’s handmaidens, journeying to and fro, bringing the meal into the _borra_ from where they were cooking it. He did not try to hide himself, but when one of them caught sight of him, she startled and dropped the pot she was carrying. It shattered about her feet but she paid no mind to it. She pointed at Ciann, her mouth covered. The two maidens with her turned to look and they also gasped and stared.

“You see, the only man these maidens had ever seen was Balor, who was tall but fat, with hair that reached to his shoulders and a beard that reached almost to his waist. Now young Ciann was not wearing any clothes; when the skin of the seal had come off, he had been left as naked as a babe. He had hair the colour of the sun in curls about his face, and his beard was short and trimmed. He was a comely man and the maidens soon realised he was as fair in manner as he was in face.

“Their speech was old fashioned, but they made themselves understood, and they asked him to join them in their meal. Ciann was well pleased. All three of the maidens were lovely to look upon. One had hair the colour of ripe barley that grows in the lowlands, one had hair that shone like wet rocks in the sea, and the third, the first to see him, had hair as soft and brown as the seal skin Ciann had worn. But when he entered the _borra_ , he saw nine more maidens, each more beautiful than the one before her.

“They crowded around Ciann, some so bold as to touch his hair and stroke his beard. They laughed and chattered amongst themselves and Ciann was well pleased by their company. But then the maidens fell silent; another maiden was making her way down the stairs from the floor above. She was more beautiful than any of the rest: her eyes shone like stars, her teeth werewhite as the full moon, and her golden hair glittered like sunlight on the water even by torchlight. She came up to Ciann and he was struck speechless by her beauty so that he could not answer when she asked his name.”

Next to him, Úlla sighs happily. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her hands are clasped around them so she can lean forward.

"Her voice was low and sounded like music to Ciann’s ears. She gave Ciann her name – Ethnea – and stood waiting.” Nechtann picks up the staff next to his rock and sets it to point to the sky. “That was not the only thing that stood.”

While the rest laugh, including Úlla, it takes Esca a moment to understand what Nechtann is implying and he feels the heat rush to his face. He can’t remember when he learned; it seems now to be something he always knew. But certainly he can’t imagine either his father or his uncle, whose place it would have been, gathering the young men and women of the _fine_ to say such things to them. His father was a man of few words, and Enabarr would have stumbled over them; he had never taken an interest in any man or woman. He had said it was often so with those who trained with druids, and there was no explaining it. But Nechtann, who follows both paths, has fathered several children and clearly relishes telling his tale.

“This naturally caused the maidens to gather around Ciann again, with great interest, some going so far as to ask if they might feel it–” at this, those around Esca laugh,“and Ethnea was as entranced as the rest. Ciann found his voice again then, to ask how long they had been on their island. When they told him they had been brought there as girls, he understood they had no knowledge of worldly things, their memories before the island distant and cloudy, nor did they know of anything that happens between men and women at all. All they knew was the sea and the sky, the birds and the seals, and the visits from Balor, who brought them food and dresses and wool to work, and took away that which they spun and wove and embroidered. So he told them: ‘This stiffness lets us plant our seed in a woman’s belly, that it might take root so she grows a child within her.’

“The maidens were awed; several of them gathered around the maiden with the soft brown hair, she who had first seen Ciann. Segnat was her name, the keen-eyed, and she seemed to be in a position of some authority over them. So these maidens raised a great clamor around Segnat: they wanted to have a child. Ethnea watched them for a few moments only before turning her gaze back to Ciann. Ciann’s eyes met hers at the same time, and they both blushed. Then Ethnea smiled at him, and he smiled back. Meanwhile, Segnat calmed the maidens and looked to Ethnea, who said, into the quiet, ‘I too would like to have a child. But he does not give his name.’ Segnat answered, ‘He is called Ciann. The seals helped him to swim to our island. He came in search of your father’s white sea-bear.’

“This brought a frown to Ethnea’s lovely face. Ciann spoke up: ‘The white sea-bear was stolen from my brother, under my watch. I set myself to find her and bring her back. But instead I found you... and now I can think of nothing else.’ Ethnea smiled then, again, and colour stole into her cheeks.”

Esca sighs without meaning to; Nechtann has put his finger on the very problem, as if Esca needed the reminder. He does not. But his heart is harmed, and yet there is no way forward for himself, only for Muirġa alone, if Esca can manage it, to keep safe his _teglach_ , and his _fine_.

Nechtann continues to speak. “...Around them, the maidens sighed happily. Then all looked to Segnat. ‘Let us eat,’ she said to them all. ‘Let us think on this. For I would like a child as well. I believe we all would.’ So they sat and ate, Ciann at Ethnea’s right hand and Segnat opposite him. They talked of their life on the island, and Ciann told them of his life with Goibhniu, who was a smith of unparalleled skill. The maidens did not know what a smith was, but when he explained metalworking, Ethnea ran upstairs to fetch a necklace Balor had brought her. Happy to have settled on an understanding of this, Ciann went on to tell them of his quest to reach their island, and how the seal skin washed up at his feet and transformed him into a seal. ‘So you can come and go as you please,’ Segnat said to him, and her face showed that she was considering his words. ‘This may be of use.’

"Dusk had fallen by the time their meal was finished. Three of the maidens cleared away the remains. While they were thus occupied, Ciann and Ethnea went walking on the cliff that overlooked the cove of the white sea-bear. When Segnat called them back, they had already come to an understanding, even though no words were spoken. Inside the _borra_ , a fire had been kindled in the great hearth. Ciann welcomed the warmth, for now that the sun was gone, he felt his lack of clothing. One of the maidens, the one with hair the colour of ripe barley, realizing this, fetched a length of soft woolen cloth that she brought to him. He was grateful to her and wrapped himself in it.

“They talked around the fire for some little time, but the maidens could not answer many of Ciann’s questions. They did not know why Balor kept them there. He said only that it was to keep them safe, Ethnea most of all. They did know his reputation as a brave warrior and that he had a fearful weapon, an eye that none could look upon without their death following. He had told them many tales of this. He visited twice or thrice a fortnight. They grew some vegetables and barley, and had food stores if the weather should turn bad, but he was the only one who had ever come to the island. Segnat and Ethnea believed he was the only one who knew the way to it, and Ethnea added that they had been forbidden to fish, for it was too dangerous. Ciann agreed, telling them of the rocks and the whirlpools.

“This harms my heart,’ Ciann said at length, ‘that you are trapped here and I cannot think of a way to help you.’ He held Ethnea’s hand in his. ‘Do not grieve,’ she said to him. ‘It is pleasant here, and exciting when there are storms. We spin and weave, and tell each other the stories we remember.’ Ciann shook his head, and said to her and the rest that they knew nothing about another life at all. ‘This is true,’ Segnat answered. ‘But we cannot leave as it stands. My mind dwells now on having a child.’ The other maidens echoed her, Ethnea last of all. ‘Will you do this with us, that you spoke of earlier?’ Segnat asked him. ‘I see you and Ethnea are of like mind, but–’ Ethnea interrupted her. ‘You are my sisters,’ she said, in her low, musical voice that sent shivers up Ciann’s spine. ‘I would ask you, Ciann, to give each of us a child.’

“Ciann’s face felt so hot he thought it might burst into flame. What was a young man to do? He could only say yes, to Ethnea and to the rest of the maidens. But he asked Segnat what she knew already. She was the oldest of them, as he had thought, and she remembered her mother, and a brother being born, before she had been asked to accompany Ethnea to the island. ‘I understand,’ she said to him. ‘I remember it is ten moons before the child comes. My mother kept count on the wall by the entrance to the _teg_. You can bring us what is needed. We can help each other.’ She turned to the other maidens and told them what she remembered, how there would be a time that they would feel ill in the mornings, how their bellies would swell, how they would crouch to bring their child forth. Ciann was grateful for her words. He knew many things but he had never had a child of his own, and did not know what women talked of when they talked of these matters.

“The decision was made. ‘We will help each other,’ said the maiden with hair the colour of ripe barley. Gelgeis was her name. ‘We always have.’ Ethnea smiled on Gelgeis and she blushed and smiled back. Together, they made a plan. One maiden would always keep watch for Balor. When Balor visited the island, Ciann would be hidden among the stores. Each night, one maiden would welcome Ciann to her bed. Gelgeis, the youngest, would be the first, and each maiden according to her age would have her turn with Ciann until all twelve had been satisfied. Then Ciann would join Ethnea in her bed. Since these maidens had never known the touch of a man, Ciann was mindful to be gentle with them.” At this, Nechtann pauses and scans the crowd before him. There is a scattering of laughter, more nervous than not. Nechtann makes eye contact with some, and he smiles at Úlla. But when he looks at Esca, his face has no expression, and Esca feels a cold shiver down his spine. He glances at Úlla, but she hasn’t noticed; she is looking instead at Esca, a shy smile on her lips, her fingers brushing his. Thus must Gelgeis have looked at Ciann, Esca thinks, feeling the first faint stirrings of arousal, and he smiles back, and lifts her fingers to press a kiss against them, forgetting to consider the baleful gaze of Nechtann.

“The plan was executed faithfully. Balor visited twice only and seemed to find nothing amiss. Ciann spent seventeen days and nights with Ethnea after the maidens were satisfied, and they found much to love in each other. They spent time with the white sea-bear, and walked among the flowers of the meadow beyond the cliff wall. Ciann took counsel with Ethnea and Segnat. Goibhniu would need an explanation: the white sea-bear must be left with Balor for the time being, as her disappearance would raise questions in Balor’s mind. Ciann did not want to leave the island, but he knew he must. He promised Ethnea he would visit her often, when the moon began to wax. Segnat repeated to him a list to memorize, things they would need that they could not ask Balor for. All the maidens accompanied him to the cove where he had come ashore and watched as he stripped to his bare skin and wrapped himself in the skin of the seal. There he was again, on the rocks on his belly. He made his way to the water. Ethnea followed him into the sea until the water reached to her waist, and he swam up to her and around her three times. She petted his head and wished him safe travels in her low, musical voice. He felt the tears start to his eyes and as he swam away from her, his vision was blurred so that he could not see anything but a white mist.

“Ciann was welcomed back by Goibhniu and his _teglach_. They had feared him dead or captured. It took a day and a half of feasting for him to tell his story. At the end, Niamh, the wife of Goibhniu, she who was the daughter of Manann, rose from her place around the hearth and went to her storerooms. Goibhniu mourned his white sea-bear, but he put his mind to helping Ciann think of ways to rescue the maidens so that Ethnea could live with Ciann as his wife.

"In the midst of a complicated plan, Niamh interrupted them, carrying several baskets and pots for the maidens of the island; and she told her husband that when their time came she would swim with Ciann to the island. Goibhniu blustered and stormed but Niamh stood unmoved. As with all men, both Goibhniu and Ciann knew her mind was made up and they could not change it, so at last they ceased their talk.” The entire group sitting on the sand laughs at this; the pair in front of Esca and Úlla laugh so hard they end up clinging to each other, making those around them laugh too. Nechtann waits patiently but there is a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Esca has never liked him more than at this moment. ‘If any could go safely with Ciann, it is the daughter of Manann,’ Goibhniu said at the last, and peace was restored to their hearth.”

  
  


* * *

### Footnotes

46. People of the sea, people of the seals.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49212086#orig_46) to the story.

47. Small seals; children of the seals.  
[Click here to return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49212086#orig_46) to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This version of the selkie myth is synthesized from much reading and many sources, notably David Thomson’s remarkable 1984 work _The People of the Sea_ , the foresight of Lady Augusta Gregory (she of “The Rising of the Moon” note) and W. B. Yeats to collate Irish legends and tales, Padraic Colum’s _The King of Ireland’s Son_ (1916; http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3495), and the encyclopedias and collections of Katharine Briggs. N.B.: Patricia Monaghan is not cited here because her research is sloppy and she invents that are not found in the actual sources she cites (all two of them), saying such things as "Balor tricked Cian" and "Cian was killed by Balor in retaliation for his seduction of Eithne" - wrong!
> 
> Interestingly enough, Celtic cosmology is fragmentary and tribal; in fact, to refer to a monolithic (so to speak) "Celtic" cosmology is so misleading as to be wholly meaningless (Pryor, 2012). With that in mind, and using Old Irish, Tory Island, and Manx words/names and sources, this is my attempt to make sense of the various versions and traditions within the context of the canon as established in the film and in this story, and to fill in the pieces for my own selkieverse.
> 
> By the same token, there is no "one" selkie origin myth or cosmology. Pre-Christian versions of the selkie myth often revolve around male selkies who visit lonely wives of fishermen, and some scholars theorise that with the advent of Christianity, the selkie changed from male to female and became a tragedy. In the pre-Christian ethos, the male selkies were evidently providing a service and apparently fishermen didn't get too bothered upon returning home to find a new baby with webbing between its toes; sometimes the selkie child was claimed by its father, and sometimes it wasn’t. In the post-Christian versions, the selkie wife - who was almost always kidnapped, tricked through the theft of her coat and held captive by the human man who would hide the coat from her - almost always died or deserted her human family to return to the sea as soon as she found her coat again; sometimes, though, she too would reclaim her selkie children.
> 
> Within the framework of the film, where the Seal People identify with the seals themselves, it was a golden opportunity to address some of the gaps in all the stories and to attempt to reconcile some of the contradictions and fill in the blanks. For instance, although Cian originally goes off to find the magic cow (the _Glas Ghaibhleann/Gaivlin_ ) that had been stolen from his brother, once he runs across Ethnea (Eithne, Eithniu), the cow is never mentioned again. Poor cow. In my version, the cow is a “sea cow” and is restored to her owners, the master smith, Goibhniu, and his wife Niamh of the Golden Hair, daughter of the sea god Manannán / Manannán mac Lir. Also of interest: Cian’s brother Goibhniu, the master smith, has a name that is phonetically and variously written as Gobha, Govinda, Govida, or Gow. He is cognate with Wayland Smith, which is something I suspected might be the case but it was fun to have it confirmed.
> 
> If you are wondering about Ciann’s stamina, I did not make that up. At least two versions have all the maidens welcoming him to their beds, with Eithne’s full knowledge.
> 
> I apologize for the confusion about Balor. No one really seems to know what the deal was with his baleful eye. I imagine he had a glare of death that was adapted to an actual death stare. ("Man, when that guy stared at me, it killed me! Literally killed me!") At any rate, in keeping with many legends and folk tales, he was told his daughter would give birth to a son who would overthrow him; thus he imprisoned her on an island, her only companions other maidens (sometimes one, sometimes three, sometimes a dozen; and sometimes the dozen, or the three, took it in turns to stay with her).
> 
> I attempted to use the oldest extant spellings I could find (e.g., Ciann for Kian or Cian; in the Tory Island version, his name is Kineely (lageniensis [O'Hanlon] 1870), cognate to the Coneelys found in _People of the Sea_ (Thompson, 1984); what little we know of the people of northern Scotland, later called Caledonians and still later called Picts, the double "n" was a construct seen in their language, as was the "ait" construct (see, e.g., the lists of Pictish kings in J. M. P. Calise’s _Pictish Sourcebook_ (2002)). Eithne is the most common spelling of Balor's daughter in this legend, but Ethnea is how it was spelled in several older Irish sources as well as in the Tory Island version.
> 
> We are all indebted to eDIL (<http://www.dil.ie>) for their collection of archaic Irish words and the CELT archive (<https://celt.ucc.ie//>) for the same in texts.


	15. History unheard, silent like the waves

“Ciann watched the moon jealously until it waxed to the full. Then he set off for the coast with his seal skin under one arm and a turf basket on his back containing the gifts from Niamh, tied up in bundles. Goibhniu had crafted a harness around Ciann’s seal form that the bundles could be attached to. When he reached the shore, he set out the harness so he could wriggle into it and wrapped the skin about him and flopped to his belly. The harness had a cunning design so that once in the water it did not interfere with Ciann’s swimming. As a seal, Ciann longed to sport in the waves, but his human side remembered his task, and he swam steadily to the island. The sun was setting when he swam by the cove of the white sea-bear. He had misjudged the time it would take, laden, to swim to the island. When he came to his cove, the moon was rising so he knew he would have light to find his way to the _borra_. He wriggled out of his harness and shuddered out of his skin. When he turned to pick up his bundles, there stood Ethnea.

“‘I knew you would come,’ she said, but the rest of her words were lost in their embrace. She was wrapped in a length of soft wool, and she broke their embrace only long enough to let it fall from her shoulders to the sand. Beneath it she was as naked as Ciann. They fell to the sand together. Before the moon set, Ciann had spent thrice within her, as you young men will tonight. They rested together, replete, and talked in low tones. There was the hoot of an owl from the path above. Ethnea hooted back, sitting up and combing her fingers through her hair. Ciann saw the flickering of a torch and then Segnat came up to them, a smile of welcome on her face, and exchanged a brief embrace with Ciann. They gathered the bundles and made their way up the path to the _borra_ , while Ciann gave Ethnea and Segnat the words of greeting from Goibhniu and Niamh.

"Once they reached the _borra,_ Ciann was welcomed by the rest of the maidens and he and Ethnea were given warm mead to drink. Segnat was pleased to learn Niamh’s intent to act as midwife. ‘I believe there will be need,’ she said with a smile. "Seven of our number missed their courses at the new moon.’ Ciann gave her the bundles, that contained the things Segnat had asked for and the gifts from Niamh. They spent several happy days and nights as Ciann again aided the maidens who had not yet conceived. He and Ethnea spent their afternoons in the cove, wrapped only in the length of cloth. During all this time Balor did not visit the island. As the full moon waned, it came time for Ciann to return to Goibhniu. As before, Segnat told him a list. The maidens presented Ciann with a gift for Niamh: a length of cloth, spun from the finest lambs’ wool, embroidered with their tiniest stitches. They had worked on it in shifts to have it ready for Niamh. It was a length fit for a queen, embroidered with blue-green waves for the daughter of the sea. ‘The _teglach_ of Goibhniu will treasure this gift,’ Ciann said gravely. ‘Do not let the sea water ruin it,’ said Segnat, the practical one.

"Niamh was delighted with the quality of the gift as well as the thoughtfulness of the maidens. As the full moons came and went, Ciann brought gifts and useful things to and fro. Only one more moon had waxed before all the maidens fell pregnant, but Ciann and Ethnea continued to meet in their cove, taking their pleasure of one another each time Ciann visited, even as Ethnea’s belly rounded with their child. Niamh’s concern was how to hide the maidens ‘ state from Balor, but the maidens had already thought of that, adopting looser clothing and wrapping up warmly as the fall turned to winter and their bellies grew. Balor was called away to war as spring came. He spent several trips building up stores and warned them that he would be away some time. Both Ciann’s brothers, Goibhniu and Samthainn, confirmed that this was so; they had heard the Fomorians had begun a war with the king of the Rough Plains, and all reached the same conclusion, that Niamh should take this chance to go to the island.

“Ciann had spent much time in his seal form, searching for the path Balor took through the rocks and the whirlpools, but when he had tried to follow it himself, in small coracles, he foundered every time. He said the safest way would be for Niamh to hold onto his harness; he would not dive. Goibhniu was against the very plan, but knew not to protest overmuch. When Balor had not been seen for some days, and Goibhniu received word that many ships had sailed from his island kingdom, the _teglach_ set off for the shore, where Goibhniu made sure the harness was fast and that Niamh was lashed to it. He stood on the shore with the rest of his _teglach_ and watched as they crossed the waves.

“The maidens welcomed Niamh with great honour and a feast, although Balor had told them to keep their stores well. But he did not know Ciann was bringing them food also. They roasted a pig for Niamh. This was a rare treat for the maidens, since Balor did not like to share his curragh with a pig. They feasted until they could eat no more, finishing with honey cakes and spiced mead. Then Niamh took the maidens apart, one by one, to see how they were progressing. Some of the maidens were nearer their time than others; Gelgeis was one of these. Niamh had birthed several children of her own, and fostered many, and the maidens were relieved to have her among them. Ciann was kept busy, ferrying back and forth, over the next few days, as Niamh took advantage of the calm weather to prepare for thirteen babes. She and Ciann took serious counsel with Ethnea and Segnat. This was an ideal time to try to move the maidens to the mainland; but with their time so near, and the weather undependable, they were loath to risk it, since each would have to cling to the harness as had Niamh, but none were daughters of the sea as she was. ‘We will take each day as the sun rises,’ Ethnea said at last. ‘A way will be made clear when it is needed.’ Thus comforted, the maidens worried no longer about traveling away from their home.

"In the course of time, all thirteen maidens were brought to bed of healthy babes, girls and boys alike, Ethnea last of all. Hers was a boy, so strong and fair he seemed to glow, and he was called Lugos. Niamh and Ciann tended the maidens for several moons, until Niamh judged they were proceeding well. She had it in her mind to consult with her father and with her husband to find a way to bring the maidens from the island, so Ciann took her back to Goibhniu. His brother Samthainn was supposed to await them on the strand, but there was no sign of him, so Ciann set off to escort Niamh safely back to her husband. Goibhniu was delighted to see his wife returned to him, and ordered a feast, but Ciann felt something was amiss and desired to return to Ethnea and her maidens as soon as he could. Halfway back to the shore a huge storm blew up. He battled through the storm to the sea, where the waves rose as high as a cliff. But Ciann was unafraid. He wrapped his seal skin around him, flopped to his belly, and took to the water, traveling under the waves and fighting the tide and the currents.

"As he neared the island, fighting for breath and at the last of his strength, he noticed a dozen small seals by him, near the surface of the water, fighting the waves and the rocks as if they were struggling to keep afloat. When he drew nearer, he saw the reason: these small seals bore a babe upon their backs. When one tired, another took its place, all of them working to keep the child alive and breathing. Ciann blinked through his seal-wet eyes. The child was his son, and he realised, in a flash like lightning, that the small seals were his other children, that Balor must have returned, that he had been bent on their destruction. He did not know how it happened that his children could become seals. He could only guess that he had been enough in his seal form that his children too could roam the sea. Above the roar of the storm, he thought he could hear the keening of the women of the island, mourning their children. He swam among the small seals, soothing them and lending them his strength.

“Ciann had thought he was at the end of his own strength. Now, facing all his children, thrown into the sea to drown, yet saving their brother, he understood he was only at the beginning of it. He gathered them all to him and led them to safety, teaching them to swim under the waves and keeping his son alive at the same time. At last they out-swam the worst of the storm, far down the coast where Ciann had never ventured. He shuddered out of his seal skin and dried and warmed the half-drowned Lugos as best he could. The other children gathered in the shallows and watched him. He tried to show them how to come out of their skins, but they were too young to understand and only watched as he shifted back and forth. Still, they were safe, and they stayed near him: perhaps they recognized him, or perhaps, as we know in our _fine_ , blood calls to blood.” Nechtann pauses here to drink deeply of the mead in a pot at his feet.

Esca is so caught up in the story, tears starting to his eyes at the thought of the twelve babes thrown into the sea to drown, that he is startled for a moment, caught out of time and not knowing where he is. He finds Úlla’s hand and clutches it convulsively. She looks down at his hand and then over at him, and then pulls him close in, her arm around his shoulder, patting him. “You have not heard it before,” she whispers, soothing a hand down his arm. “It comes out well, Esca.” Esca cannot force words through his throat; it is clogged with the tears he is trying to swallow, too close to his heart. The sun is sagging from its middle course in the sky, which shows Esca they have been out here for some time. He has heard many stories in his life around Cunoval’s fires but none like this, that goes on and on and on; and yet he is hoping it never ends.

Nechtann takes another great swallow of mead before he resumes. “Ciann sheltered on the shore, wishing for a fire, wishing for milk for the babe, wishing to comfort all the women of the island and yet powerless to move. He could not leave the shore to find help, for it would risk all his children. He sat huddled on the shore, his human son held close to his body to warm him, both of them wrapped loosely in the seal skin, and he sang to the children in the water. It was a song of grief and joy, and he shed tears into the sea, and he laughed at the sky, for Balor had not succeeded. Thus they passed the night, the small seals, the man alone, and the small son, and when dawn came, they were all still alive. The sun rose, piercing the clouds and seeming to find Lugos alone so that he glowed in its rays. There came voices from down the strand, and the next thing Ciann saw was a tall, beautiful woman, dressed in a soft, fine fabric that shone, with jewels in her hair, accompanied by several men and women who were also richly dressed.

“‘We heard a song,’ she said to Ciann, looking around her at the sight. ‘It was of such beauty and sadness that we thought to find the maker of it. Are you in need? Has your curragh foundered? You do not seem to sojourn by choice.’ Ciann could have wept from gratitude. His words tumbled out, like a waterfall, but she seemed to make sense of them. ‘Ciann, brother of Goibhniu, the great smith?’ she said to him. ‘I have heard of him, and of Balor of the Baleful Eye. Come, give me your cloak,’ she said to the nearest man. ‘Have you something soft to wrap this precious child in? I am Tailltiu, queen of the Fir Bolg, and I will aid you in returning to your kin.’ Ciann thanked her, and gave Lugos into the hands of one of the women, who wrapped him and soothed him. But, he said, he could not go overland because the seal children could not return to their human form and he could not leave them to swim alone. ‘Never fear,’ Tailltiu said. ‘This one will ride to fetch food and clothing for you and your son, and set a curragh to come to you here. I do not mean to add to your distress, but you are several days’ ride from your brother’s _teg_ , and more than that, it seems, from the island where your wife mourns. We will wait with you, to protect you and give you comfort.’

“The attendants of Tailltiu scattered to do her bidding. One set out rocks on which Tailltiu could rest, while another built a fire, and yet another waded out into the sea to bring in some small fish. The small seals clustered around his legs and soon they began to hunt fish of their own accord. Meanwhile, Tailltiu petted the skin that turned Ciann into a seal, but she did not ask to see the change. Ciann understood she was being polite and he took the skin from her and offered to show her while her attendant comforted Lugos. He wrapped himself in the skin and flopped on his belly on the shore. When he entered the water, his little seals clustered around him and he nuzzled them and swam with them, holding each in his flippers for a time. Then he showed them how to find small squid among the rocks, and they dove eagerly and ate what they could find. When he returned to land and shuddered out of his skin, a few followed him up into the shallows and he had a hope that they would remember. But they did not. They only watched him, curious and sad, clustered around each other. He knew they were hungry still, and the little fish Tailltiu’s man had roasted for the people to eat tasted like ashes in his mouth.

“‘That is a wonderful thing,’ Tailltiu said, her eyes shining. ‘I have never seen the like. It was a gift from Manann, you say?’ Ciann said it was, or so he thought. Just then they saw a head bobbing in the water, far out beyond the breakers. Ciann shaded his eyes and looked to it, then waded into the water. It was the white sea-bear. Ciann sent up thanks to Manann, and to Ethnea and Segnat: they must have released the white sea-bear from her imprisonment, knowing she was a magical creature. She swam up to him, cautious at first, as if she was sizing up him and the little seals. Then she barked to the small ones as she pulled herself onto the shore and lay along the sand. One by one, the little seals crawled up near her – for the white sea-bear was full of milk and Ciann supposed that her milk was much the same as a seal’s milk, let alone human milk.

“‘Manann has sent her,’ Tailltiu said in a low voice as they watched her give suck. ‘Truly these are children of the sea. And this child of yours, that shines like the sun?’ Then Ciann answered, ‘I do not know. His mother, the daughter of Balor, has hair that shines even in the dark. But he did not turn into a seal. I was not there so I cannot say why.’ He shed some tears then, and Tailltiu watched him gravely. At last he wiped his eyes and looked over at the twelve little seals. They were lined up on the strand, basking in the sun, sleeping, their bellies fat and full. ‘Thank you, father,’ Ciann said to the water. At his words, Tailltiu handed him a pot of mead. Ciann thanked her too and waded out into the waves once again to pour the mead out and to give thanks to Manann for his kindness and for his daughter, Niamh, the brightest star in Goibhniu’s _teglach_. ‘If you would sleep, I will watch over your children,’ Tailltiu said when Ciann returned to the fire. ‘If you would rest only, still I will watch.’ Perhaps it was foolish of Ciann to trust her but his heart told him she was a woman of honour and courage.

“So he thanked her and wrapped himself in the cloak her man had given him and settled himself down on the sand for a nap. When he awoke, the little seals were frolicking in the waves and Lugos was watching them happily, clapping his hands. More of Tailltiu’s people had arrived, bringing milk for Lugos and word that a curragh was making its way down the coast to them. Tailltiu’s women prepared a feast while Ciann gave to one of her men a message for Goibhniu and Niamh, although he had the hope that Niamh might know already that they had not perished. But none of them save Ciann could get word to the island and the maidens who mourned there, and so he was anxious to be off, despite the kindness of Tailltiu. When the curragh arrived, with the dawn the next morning, Ciann loaded it quickly. His plan was to swim as a seal, pulling or pushing the curragh, to shorten the journey. Lugos could be safe and dry, and any of the little seals who were tired. He remembered that Gelgeis’ daughter was small, like her mother, and he worried that she might be the one that would tire most easily. He was almost certain he knew which one she was; there was one smaller than the rest, with delicate whiskers and pale freckles across its nose that brightened its face.

“Tailltiu and her people wished him well, and Ciann said he owed her a debt he could never repay. Tailltiu said there was no debt between them, only friendship, and that she would be proud to foster a son of Ciann’s when the time came. This was a signal honour; Ciann knew the Fir Bolg did not offer fostering lightly, and he was profuse in his thanks. Tailltiu sent her best wishes to Ethnea and her maidens and said when they were reunited, they would have a feast and must send for her. The thought of this lightened Ciann’s heart, and he wrapped the skin around himself and flopped on his belly, entering the water with renewed energy.

“They had fixed a rope so that Ciann could swim well ahead of the curragh yet still pull it without choking himself. His children swam about him while Lugos slept, lulled by the motion of the waves. The sea itself was calm, and gentle, as if it knew the importance of their journey. But Ciann kept an eye on the smaller ones, and sometimes he put them on his back and other times he put them in the curragh, where they snuggled up against Lugos and slept. As the sun began to hang low in the sky, the white sea-bear reappeared. Although Ciann wanted to go on, he understood she had come to feed the little seals, so he followed her as she led the way to a sheltered, sandy cove. He shuddered and shook and resumed his human form, still hoping that his children would imitate him. But none did; instead they surrounded the white sea-bear, clamouring for food. Lugos was awake and watchful. Although he had had little to eat or drink while they travelled, he was calm and waited to be fed while his father tended to him. He drank the milk thirstily and then he played on the sand with the little seals while Ciann built a fire and sang a song to Ethnea and her maidens to let them know they were coming back, whole in heart, whole in family. The white sea-bear swam out beyond the rocks and he saw her bobbing there, joined by others that might have been seals or sea-bears. It was impossible to tell with the sun setting on the water. It was his hope they would keep watch; he rolled up in his cloak with Lugos, the little seals clustered about him, and they slept as soon as the sun had disappeared.

“They continued like this for another day, then another. Tailltiu had said several days’ ride, and Ciann thought he might cover the same distance in his seal form that a horse would. Soon enough, on the third day, he began to think he was seeing familiar landmarks. Then he caught sight of a crag over the sea that he knew. He did not want to stop when they were so close, but once again the white sea-bear appeared and the little seals followed her to shore. He had just set Lugos down by the fire when he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves. There came a troop of horses down the sand, from the direction of the crag. At the head of the troop was his brother, Goibhniu, and Niamh was with him. They had received Tailltiu’s message. There were many tears and much laughter. Niamh bounced Lugos on her knee and fondled and played with the fat little seals, who were not afraid of her at all. Niamh had brought with her a mother with a young babe, and Ciann surrendered Lugos to her capable hands. Niamh agreed that the little seals were too young to understand how to change back and said that perhaps as they grew they would see Ciann and learn. That they were still alive, and thriving, she said, must be the consolation for now for their mothers. Goibhniu rejoiced in the return of his brother and the children, and in the return of his white sea-bear, which had helped keep them alive.

“Ciann noticed that Niamh was holding the smallest one, the one he thought was Ciannait, the daughter of Gelgeis, so he told Niamh his belief. She cooed at the seal, holding it up like a human baby, and it squealed at her, not sounding like a seal at all. ‘There is hope,’ Niamh said. ‘Little Ciannait remembers being a baby. Tell Gelgeis when you go.’ For Niamh understood, as Goibhniu did not, that Ciann would leave for the island immediately. Goibhniu asked him to wait until the morning; even Samthainn, who blamed himself for the whole, begged him to rest and wait. But Ciann could not. All his thoughts now were with the women of the island who mourned their lost babes. ‘Balor could still be there,’ Goibhniu urged. ‘He has lost the white sea-bear and his rage will be immense. Think, Ciann.’ But he answered, ‘No, I cannot think. Ethnea and the rest believe their babes are dead, dashed to pieces on the rocks or drowned in the sea. Balor does not know I am a seal. Ethnea knows I will come as soon as I can.’

“Ciann fortified himself with mead, and, once again, he poured an offering to Manann of thanks before he wrapped himself in his seal skin and flopped on his belly. It was a consolation that Balor would never think to look among the seals for the babes he had tried to murder. Ciann knew that Balor could not be killed – all the world knew it – but at that moment, as he swam steadily for the island where the women wept, he said to himself that he would die trying.

“There were no watchfires alight at the island; he swam around the cove where the white sea-bear had been kept. He knew already she was there no longer, but neither was Balor’s curragh. Ciann could not imagine that he would have left the maidens alone after these events, but he swam the island around and did not see a curragh anywhere, although he explored every inlet. So at last he risked the cove where he had landed before. He lay for a while in his seal form, listening for sounds, but there was only silence. He barked twice and waited another while, but there was no answer. It finally occurred to him that perhaps Balor had removed all of them to somewhere else, and he despaired momentarily of finding them. He lowed, then, long and sad, and his eyes dripped tears onto the sand. But then there was a hoot above him, a quiet, sad sound. Ciann shuddered his way out of the seal skin and leapt to his feet. There came Ethnea onto the sand, her hair glimmering and her eyes full of tears. They clung together, wordless, for a long moment. ‘He is still alive,’ Ciann said then, into her ear. ‘They are all still alive.’ Ethnea took in a deep, shuddering breath, and fixed her eyes on his. ‘How can that be? We saw – we saw him–’ And then the brave woman broke down, sobbing, her face in her hands, crouching in the sand and rocking herself.

“Ciann fell to his knees beside her. ‘They all live,’ he said to her, pulling her hands away from her face and wiping away her tears. ‘My word on it, _a chroí_. I came as soon as I could to tell you and the others.’ But her sobs did not abate. ‘We begged him, we threw ourselves at his feet–’ Ciann pulled her close to him, drawing her head to his breast. ‘He will die,’ Ciann said. ‘He will die, _a ghrá geal_.’ At that, Ethnea raised her face to his. ‘He will,’ she whispered. ‘You tell me our son still lives? He is the instrument of Balor’s destruction. He kept me here because of a prophecy, that the only one who could kill him would be his grandson. But it was not only his grandson he tried to kill. It was all of them. And I could not stop him.’

“‘Where is he?’ Ciann asked her, and she told him that he had departed in a towering rage, that he had said he would never return and their island would become their tomb. ‘So we freed the

white sea-bear. We hoped she would return to her home. And then we wept our tears into the sea, our hope lost but for you.’ She fixed her eyes on him. ‘I knew you would return, if you could. But you tell me the children still live? That is not possible.’

“So Ciann told her how he had come to the island in the storm, as a seal, and how he had come across a dozen young seals, bearing Lugos up in the water to keep him from drowning, and how they had tried to swim beyond the storm and found themselves many days from the island, down the coast. ‘But they were... seals?’ Ethnea asked. ‘How?’ Ciann answered her. ‘I know not,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is the magic of my seal skin. Perhaps it is the mercy of Manann.’ She gripped his hands, tears of joy streaming down her face. ‘We must go tell the others,’ she said, and turned on her heel and started up the path to the _borra_. ‘Wait! ‘ Ciann said to her, hurrying behind her. ‘There is more to the story.’

“But Ethnea was far ahead of him already, and just as Ciann set his foot to the path to follow her, he heard a weak bark from the cove behind him. He turned swiftly and scanned the water. There was a small head bobbing. He waded out quickly to see. There he found the littlest seal, the one they called Ciannait, with the bright freckles. She was so tired she could barely swim, the waves washing her towards the shore. He pulled her from the water and held her close to warm her while he ran up the path after Ethnea. All the maidens were surrounding Ethnea when he reached the top of the hill, and for a few moments there was more noise on the island than any flock of gulls could hope to match. Ethnea was relating what Ciann had said to her, that their babes had been turned to seals. ‘All but Lugos,’ Ethnea said. ‘I do not know why, but he did not change, and they saved their brother’s life, keeping him afloat.’ At this, the maidens wept anew.

“Segnat was the first to notice Ciann, and the maidens broke from around Ethnea to surround Ciann, who struggled to get his breath. ‘There is more,’ he said then, holding up the littlest seal. ‘They do not know how to change back yet. Niamh thinks they are too young but that they will learn in time.’ There were sounds of dismay among the maidens, but Gelgeis pushed forward to the front, her eyes fixed on the little seal. ‘They are still our children,’ she said, and at the sound of her voice, the little seal wriggled in Ciann’s hands. He told her his suspicion, that this seal was Ciannait, and that she had followed him to the island despite being the smallest and weakest, but Gelgeis had already taken the little seal in her arms and cuddled it as a child, crooning and rocking it. The little seal nuzzled at her breast and Gelgeis held it up and kissed it all over its face, heedless of its whiskers and fur. Then she kissed its fat little belly and the little seal shuddered and shook and suddenly Gelgeis was holding her daughter, the skin of the seal dangling from her fingers. She put her daughter to her breast and the little one nursed eagerly, hungry from her long journey. But Gelgeis did not nurse her long; soon enough she passed her on to the next maiden, who gave her suck, and then did the same.

“ ‘Our milk is drying up,’ Segnat said to Ciann, who stood watching in amazement. ‘This can help.’ Ethnea was the last to hold Ciannait, who was so drowsy she fell asleep mid-suck, and all the maidens surrounding her sighed in happiness. Gelgeis took her back and wrapped her in the seal skin before Ciann could stop her. And there was Gelgeis, holding a little seal once more. ‘Do not worry,’ Gelgeis said to Ciann, who began to protest. ‘She knows now. The others will learn.’ Ciann gaped but he knew there was magic stronger even than that of Manann’s: a white sea-bear that was also a mother and gave her milk to children not her own, and a mother who knew her own child, no matter what form she took.

“Segnat and Ethnea had been conferring, meanwhile, and drew near to Ciann and Gelgeis while the maidens surrounded them, watching and listening. ‘Niamh was able to come with you through the water,’ Ethnea said. ‘We will come with you the other way now.’ But Ciann objected to this: Niamh was the daughter of the sea and was almost a seal herself, he said. ‘We are mothers of seals,’ the maidens said. ‘We are the same now.’ And Segnat looked around them and then at Ciann and said, ‘It is our risk to take, _a chara_. We cannot be parted from our children any longer, and they cannot live here.’ She said to the maidens, ‘Do you go and gather your things. Bring a small bundle only. This will be difficult enough for Ciann.’

“But all the maidens stood forward, not one moving a single step backwards, for they were all women of honour and courage. ‘We are ready now,’ said Gelgeis, her little seal sleeping peacefully in her arms, and the other maidens nodded. Then before Segnat could say more, they began to wend their way down the path to Ciann’s cove. Ciann and Ethnea followed, hand in hand, and Ciann told them all of the white sea-bear that had come to nurse their little seals and of Tailltiu, who had provided him with food and a curragh, and how Lugos and the little seals played together on the sand. This caused much joyful weeping among the maidens, who desired to face all danger to be reunited with their little ones. Two maidens built a fire in the cove as Ciann prepared to resume his skin. But before he dropped to his belly, Segnat the keen-eyed caught sight of a light out on the sea, beyond the rocks. She hushed them all; there, above the sound of waves, was the sound of human voices, shouting something.

“‘It is Niamh,’ Gelgeis said immediately. ‘I will go see,’ said Ciann. ‘Keep watch!’ For his great fear was that Balor had returned, for better or ill, and would try to stop the maidens from leaving. He swam quickly, his fear lending him speed. But Gelgeis had been right: Niamh and Goibhniu were there, in a large curragh beyond the whirlpools. And because she was Niamh, the sea was calm about her so the curragh did not drift. Ciann understood at once: he had only to bring the maidens beyond the rocks and the whirlpools to join Goibhniu and Niamh in the curragh instead of bringing each to shore. ‘We dared not bring the children,’ Niamh said over the side of the curragh to Ciann as he bobbed there in the water. ‘No one has had word of Balor.’ Goibhniu joined her: ‘I know you are tired, brother, but the sooner you bring them the better. I like this not.’ He cast the harness he had made for Ciann into the sea, so Ciann could dive down to catch it. He came up wearing it, swimming alongside so Goibhniu could make it fast. Then he barked his gratitude and swam off through the whirlpools, back to the island and the maidens who waited.

One by one, they came out to the curragh. Gelgeis was one of the last. She clung to Ciann as if he were a horse and never took her eyes from Ciannait, who swam alongside them and seemed cheerful to see her mother in the water with her. Segnat was next; Ethnea insisted on being last, since hers was the responsibility. Ciann recognized her honour and courage and did not try to argue with her, although his heart was heavy in him and he worried she would somehow be gone when he went back the last time for her, last of all. Gelgeis, who had been leaning forward to look to the shore, lost her grip on Ciannait, who slithered back into the sea from her arms and set off to follow Ciann. ‘Let her go,’ Niamh said, her hand on Gelgeis’ arm. ‘She knows her purpose.’

Ciann would have argued but he was tired and anxious, so he set off for the cove, only slowing enough that Ciannait could keep up. He watched her through the whirlpool, and the two of them swam up to the cove finally where Ethnea stood waiting, standing in water up to her waist. Ciannait swam around her, frolicking, and tired as he was Ciann snorted, for that is how a seal laughs. Ethnea smiled on the little seal and climbed on Ciann’s back, wrapping the straps around her wrists and leaning close in. The little seal swam ahead of them as they left the island for the last time. She showed Ciann a new way through the whirlpool, using the current of the waterspout to launch herself towards the curragh. Ciann followed her, his strength all but spent, but his eyes on his little daughter who was leading him forward. A great shout went up from the curragh when the three of them were sighted. Ethnea slipped off his back then to ease his burden, swimming alongside him and holding onto his harness. There were many hands that helped pull her into the curragh, while Gelgeis swiftly captured her little daughter and wrapped her up so she couldn’t wriggle away again. Goibhniu’s mighty muscles worked: he hoisted his brother into the curragh by the harness he had built, and Ciann lay on the floor of the curragh and panted for breath. Ethnea cast herself down beside him while he shuddered and shook himself out of the seal skin and they clung together while Goibhniu rowed for shore and Niamh worked her will with the current to aid him.

“Goibhniu had charged Samthainn to build several _tighe_ by the shore while he fetched Ciann and the maidens. By the time they all returned, Samthainn had already finished one. When the rest were finished, the _teglach_ had a great feast that lasted for three days and nights. All the _finte_ came, even that of Tailltiu, who struck up a great friendship with Ethnea, and Lugos’ fosterage was thus decided. The white sea-bear was put into Ciann’s charge and Goibhniu’s _teglach_ continued to prosper. Little Ciannait showed her brothers and sisters how to change from seal to human and back again, and so the little seals spent half their time on land and half in the sea.

“But some of the little seals never did learn to take their human form again. Niamh spoke with great compassion to their mothers, who wept their tears in the sea, spending the remainder of day in the water and that night on the shore. The next morning, when dawn broke and the tide came in, twelve seal skins washed up on the shore. The maidens whose babes had not changed grasped the skins immediately, wrapped themselves up, and flopped to their bellies, swimming out to join their little seals who played in the waves. As the summer went by, some of the little seals learned, and some did not, and some of the maidens stayed more and more in their seal form, so it was impossible to know which was a seal and which was a maiden. As time went on, sometimes men would come across such maidens on the shores, sunning themselves on rocks, and these maidens would join the men for a time. And sometimes women would come across young men with great dark eyes, basking on the shore; and these young men would join the women for a time. But they always went back to the sea, and sometimes they took their children with them. The people of the seals, _na muinntir na rónta_ , learned never to live too far from the coast, lest they lose their ties with the people of the sea, _na muinntir na farraige_ , and their kin who swam there.

“Goibhniu, with the counsel of Niamh, foresaw this, and so Goibhniu spoke these words to the _fine_ : ‘From this time forward, the seals are our people and none must hunt them or eat them, for we do not eat our brothers, or sons, or sisters, or daughters. The spotted sea-bears must be respected as our kin, and permission must always be asked to take only what is needed from them, for they will give what is needed to us, as did the white sea-bear.’ This was Goibhniu’s decree, and his _teglach_ , and those that came of it, abide by it to this very day. Later the time came when Balor turned his eye on Lugos, and Lugos was revenged on his grandfather for his mother and his brothers and sisters at the last battle of Mag Tuired. But that is a different story for a different time.”

While Nechtann drinks thirstily, those on the sand raise their voices in cheers and accolades. Esca adds his voice to theirs; that was unlike anything else he has experienced, as, he thinks with an inner smile, most of his experiences among the Seal People have been thus far. Nechtann finishes, finally, and bows his head to them. Then he lifts both arms and they quiet down. “Before the moon rises, we feast,” he says. “The elders of the _fine_ have prepared this food to welcome all that is new that comes this night, into our _feann_ , into our _fine_. We ask for the blessings of Cernunnos, of Manann, and, most of all, Lugos the Bright, on this night.” As he has been speaking, he has risen to his feet and waded into the water with the second pot. He lifts it high over his head and pours its contents into the sea. Another great cheer goes up to the sky; looking behind him, Esca sees most of the _fine_ gathered on the crest of the shingle, all the men and women who had not joined the young people on the strand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Sometimes I'm sad to think of all the history that's been lost.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _History unheard_  
>  _Silent like the waves_  
>  _A graveyard for the giants_  
>  _That was his eye, dry is his heart_  
>   
>  _Dreams about swimming_  
>  _Dreams about falling_  
>  _from the sky through the sea_  
>  _While the moon lays out a bed_  
>  _Of bones to call home_  
>   
>     ~ _Miles from the Sea_ , Calexico


	16. Down this chain of days I wished to stay among my people

“Now we feast!” Úlla says eagerly, her eyes dancing, pulling Esca back to the present. “We had word of a boar, to roast, and a young one, fat with acorns, to prepare in the manner of your people, Áed said. And best of all, I did not have to skin it, or clean it, or even gather seaweed!”

Her laughter is infectious; Esca laughs too, even as he realises this is indeed a festival for her, and the other young women, and even the young men. It is to the women that the large part of cooking falls, as it had among the Brigantes; but he had never considered, until he had lived as a slave and worked in the kitchens of the Romans, how much work it is to feed people. When he was a boy, he would go off and snare hares and hunt deer, and bring them back, gutted and sometimes skinned; and then there would be roast or stewed meat and he would give it no more thought than to eat it.

Úlla begins to get to her feet, and Esca scrambles to his own to offer her a hand up. “Sometimes we trade for sheep with other _finte_ but that has not happened in recent years.”

"Since the Romans,” Esca says, remembering the conversation with Muirġa in the very cave that sits before them.

"They eat all in their path,” Úlla says gravely. “There is little left. They never seem to understand, my brother says, that this land cannot hold their forts and the number of their warriors. When you take too much from the land, it cannot survive.”

“There must be a balance,” Esca says.

“This is what my brother says as well,” Úlla says, a gurgle of laughter in her throat.

“You and your brother are close,” Esca says as they make their way up the shingle. “It is a wonderful thing to see.”

"Not as close as you,” she answers, and her smile reaches all the way to her eyes.

Esca grins at her. “It is different,” he says. “Although I had brothers, we were far apart in age and we were never close. But you and Muirġa seem to have bridged that where I and my brothers could not. It warms the heart.”

“That is kind of you,” she says quietly, no longer teasing him. “He has always had much patience with me, it is true. When I asked Nechtann for – for the strand, that I could invite you, although I did not ask Muirġa first, he lent his voice to mine. I did not understand all that had to be done, but he did and still he lent his voice to mine.” She glances sidelong at Esca and then smiles, mischief dancing across her face. “Although parts of it were no hardship for him.”

Esca can feel his face warming; these are not memories he thought to share with Muirġa's sister. “Nor for me,” he says, clearing his throat. “Your brother has had much patience with me also.”

“It was no hardship,” she says again. “All can see it. I hope – I hope it can be the same for us.”

Esca stops and turns, and she stops too, looking up at him. Her eyes are wide and dark, and he sees something of Muirġa in them. “I have no worries on that score,” he says quietly. “I had a thought that this was something you had been told to do, and I was uneasy. But your brother, and Áed and Calcach, assured me this night is your choice.”

“This night is expected of us, that is true,” Úlla says, equally quietly. “But it is not forced on us. My sister still has not… has not gone. I am like Ethnea’s maidens, I think. I would like to have a child. My mother says the time is right and I should bear easily. And I have seen you, how you are with Maelhoch, with my brother, even with the Roman... you are a kind man, and gentle, and your eyes laugh when your mouth does. And–” She hesitates, dropping her eyes; but then she draws in a breath and looks at him again, her chin lifting. “You are important. Important enough that Nechtann would not say no without thought.”

Esca is startled, and he tries to hide it, since his surprise is a rebuke to him, and less than a compliment to her. Up until this moment he has not thought of her as more than Muirġa’s sister, but even if he had only thought of her that way, he ought to have expected the same awareness, the same sharp mind as her brother; and that she, too, would have her own wishes and thoughts on the matter. And despite her praise, that is not kind of him. He is not sure, too, while they are being honest, if he ought to be more honest than he has been with any thus far.

But her next words forestall his, tumbling out as if she is nervous yet determined to have her say: “Muirġa came to me, after, and explained to me that he desired to have you in our _teglach_ , not only in the _feann_ , although that he wanted also. He said to me that my desire fell in with his own, and with his plans as well, but if I was not comfortable being part of these, he would take no part in mine. He told me, as if I was a man, as if I was a brother to him instead of only a sister, why he wanted the son of Cunoval to be one with our _teglach_ , to be his sea-brother, to be the father of his nephew who might one day lead us. Not a person knows he has said such to me. Please do – do not betray him to our – to Nechtann, or Bridei. But…” She looks down, then up again, earnest. “I wanted only to tell you that I understand some of what he thinks and hopes. And I see the great affection he has for you. I cannot say I have as much, yet, as this. But ours will grow also, as our child does. And I agree with him that you are a man of courage and honour.”

Now Esca is itching with a different curiosity, and her words hardly register: if Muirġa has shared this much with her, then she may know of the life-debt. But is this something Muirġa would want discussed apart from him, even with his trusted sister? But while he wrestles with this question, Úlla puts a hand on his arm, and raises her face to his. The invitation is unmistakable – and unexpected – but a quick glance shows others embracing also, and so he pulls her close to him and lavishes a kiss on her lips, trying not to remember the last kiss he shared, with her brother.

Not, he thinks, suppressing a small laugh, that she seems to mind the thought.

It doesn’t help that as soon as he lifts his head, he locks eyes with Muirġa, his paint refreshed, standing a few lengths away, looking at Esca over the head of the woman in his arms. Esca feels his face burn, but Muirġa nods at him, then presses two fingers to his lips and holds them in the air. It’s so quick, so brief, Esca almost doesn't make sense of it. When he does, even his ears burn, but he smiles back at Muirġa.

Úlla follows his gaze, and waves excitedly to her brother. “He’s here!” she says. “Coblait said he had mentioned it but he had not yet returned when Nechtann began the tale of our people.” She takes Esca's hand in hers and pulls him across the shingle to her brother, rocks rattling underfoot in her wake. Esca recognizes the woman he stands with, of course: she was the one who drew Maelhoch into her _teg_ , the woman who did not stay to be greeted the night before. “Coblait?” he says, for Úlla's ears only.

“She is the mother of Maelhoch,” Úlla says over her shoulder. “None thought Muirġa would take a wife, of course, but he says that she, like me, does not annoy him. Much.” The laughter flows from her like water in a brook, and her joy at seeing her brother, going to the strand again with a woman she holds in some regard, brings a smile to Esca's lips and helps quell the twinge of jealousy he feels. There is no need for it, and no point to it; Muirġa's praise, delivered so drily by his sister that Esca can hear him saying it in his mind, is only to be expected. “We will have _eonnrónta_ together!” Úlla is saying excitedly, taking Coblait's hands in her own.

“Sons,” Muirġa says, and although he does not smile, Esca sees the glint of amusement in his eye.

“Or daughters,” Úlla says, laughing at him. “You need daughters for your sons, my brother.”

“Sons,” Muirġa says again, but this time a corner of his mouth twitches.

Esca says, “I have always wanted a little girl, like the one in the tale Nechtann told us.”

This makes Úlla double over with laughter, especially when her brother shakes his head at the two of them. “This is a mistake,” Muirġa says. “Our _teglach_ will never be quiet again, between the two of you and any sons you have.”

“Or daughters,” Esca says, putting a thoughtful expression on his face. Muirġa stares at him, his brow creasing, then looks closely at Esca’s mouth where he is trying not to smile, and bursts out laughing himself. Even Coblait, who seems nervous among them all, meeting no one’s eyes except Úlla’s, smiles at that, and Úlla draws her forward, chattering excitedly, climbing towards the dún for the feast.

“You have shared much with your sister,” Esca says quietly, under the cover of Úlla's talk.

“She is not unintelligent. For a woman,” and Muirġa gives him a sidelong glance, filled with the same mischief as his sister; and Esca feels his heart swell. “I have some small affection for her. She does not annoy me. Much.” This last he directs at Úlla, ahead of them; she turns on her heel and flings her arms around his neck, rocking him back. “Ullagan! You are a child! You are too young to be a mother!” he says, but she hugs him regardless and Esca sees Muirġa hug her in return before setting her back on her feet.

They eat together, the four of them, and Áed. Calcach has been asked to the strand and he is across the circle from them, in a cluster of six. Úlla and Coblait sit and talk quietly about those on the strand, and Áed contributes something now and then. Esca savours the roast boar and loses himself in thought as well, of nothing in particular: he doesn't know enough to talk of the things that interest them, and his head is still out of this world and in that of Ciann and Ethnea. Muirġa is silent too, lounging back on his elbows, seeming lost in thought, even though Úlla tries to draw him in. Then Úlla says something that makes Áed get to his feet, all at once, and move swiftly away. Esca looks up at that to see both Coblait and Muirġa looking at Úlla, who is wide eyed.

“I never meant–”

“It was not well thought of,” Muirġa says slowly, a rebuke, but his voice is kind.

“He bears some pain still,” Coblait says quietly.

“It was the farthest thing from my mind,” Úlla says, tears in her eyes, scrambling to her feet. “I must go tell him.”

“She is a woman of courage,” Muirġa says, looking after her.

“She meant nothing by it,” Coblait says.

Muirġa shakes his head in agreement. “He will never forget it, but she was only a child then, and he knows it.”

Esca looks from one to the other. Muirġa sighs. “This is talk for women,” he murmurs, but Coblait remains silent. “Áed was handfasted,” Muirġa says finally, his voice tight. “They were young. It was their first time on the strand. She bore twins. All died. He does not go to the fires of Lugos.”

The breath catches in Esca’s throat: suddenly he understands much more of that night, much more of Muirġa’s concern for Áed, his care towards him. He turns to Muirġa to ask, then remembers Coblait; this is not something he can say in front of her.

Just then there is a sniff from behind them. “Twins are an ill omen,” Bridei says. “The people of the sea do not have twins. It was–”

“Do not say that in my hearing,” Muirġa says without raising his eyes or his voice. Bridei sniffs again and moves away. There is a small smile on Coblait's mouth that makes Esca warm to her. He knows he is suppressing a smile himself.

“Calcach tries a third time,” Coblait offers, clearly trying to change the subject.

“It is in my mind she chooses him because she knows she won't catch,” Muirġa says, unguarded for once, and for the first time Esca hears Coblait laugh. Muirġa catches Esca's eye, then looks away again, shamefaced, but Esca is grinning too.

“Third time the charm,” Esca says, a distant echo of his mother in his head.

“Let it be so,” Muirġa says, and he smiles then. “He would like that. She? I know not.”

“She has an affection for him,” Coblait says. “She may be pleased.”

“She will be pleased, never fear,” Muirġa says, his grin wicked.

“Men,” Coblait says, but she is smiling. “There is your sister, and Bearrach. The moon will rise soon.”

Muirġa holds his hand out as she begins to get to her feet. “You are a woman of honour and courage,” he says to her. “Also a woman of sense. I will see you at the strand. I thank you for this honour.”

“The honour is mine,” she says quietly, a flush rising to colour her face.

“All will know it someday,” Muirġa says, a peculiar emphasis on the first word. She only nods and then leaves, so quickly Esca would almost say she flees. Again he feels like the alien, the stranger that he is: there are undercurrents and he could spend a lifetime and never learn them all. Muirġa stares after her, then flicks his eyes to Esca, clearly changing the course of his thoughts. “I would like to take you into the trees–”

“Stop,” Esca says, hard all at once.

“Or to the strand,” Muirġa continues as if he has not heard. “I would spend inside you thrice without taking a breath between. How goes it with you, my archer? Are you well?”

Esca's face feels as if it would kindle a damp, green twig, and he has to will his tongue to speak nothing of importance. “Calcach – Calcach said you would find a bear.”

Muirġa blinks, and then a slow smile steals across his face. “And strangle it barehanded,” he says. “There is a fortunate bear out there. I vented my spleen on the boars. It has been forever since I have touched you.” These last words are said simply, directly, and Esca's heart skips a beat. “The shame of the _teglach_ seems small in comparison to my desire.”

The weight between Esca's legs throbs, and he has to swallow before he can answer. “I would your seed still drained from me, my shield-brother.” There is a sharp intake of breath and he finds he cannot look at Muirġa; he is a coward after all. “Yet it does not, and I feel its lack.”

“ _A_ _ṡearc_ ,” Muirġa says, his voice hoarse, strangled. “Say it. Say just one word. I will leave my seed in you for all the night, here and now.”

Now Esca does not dare look at him. The throbbing has spread from between his legs to all of him, before and behind. The memory of Muirġa within him is sharp: the weight of him, pulsing as he spends; the near-inaudible sigh as he withdraws his spear, wet, sated, softening. Esca's heartbeat thunders; his arrow strains against his trousers. A touch – even a word – would set him off. He will not speak, for he will not be the cause of Muirġa's shame; but he cannot, so it is moot. He risks a glance at Muirġa. His eyes are closed. Esca drinks in the sight of him, his jaw clenched, his throat tensed, his hands fisted, his spear hard enough Esca can discern its length even beneath the drape of the doeskin apron that covers Muirġa's lap; and his mouth waters.

Then Muirġa opens his eyes. “I'm sorry,” Esca says, meeting his eyes. “That was not well done of me, my shield-brother.”

Muirġa takes a deep breath, expelling it the next moment in a noisy gust. “I began it.” He holds Esca's gaze for another long moment. His tongue flickers out and Esca imitates him without thinking, tasting the salt on his own lips. “We both know it.” Muirġa sounds resigned. “It makes this no easier.” He fingers the bones around his neck. “Be mindful, my archer,” he says. “All the honey, all the mead, this night – all is herbed. It is part of the rituals, both for you in the _feann_ and for all of us on the strand. We will sleep well past the dawn tomorrow.”

Esca stares at him, his heart sinking, his mind rebelling. This morning, the future had seemed far enough away, Esca still able to tell himself he was waiting for the right moment, waiting for a chance to get Marcus and his Eagle away.

And now here it is; and he cannot tell Muirġa goodbye.

He cannot tell Muirġa anything at all.

Muirġa looks back at him, his concern plain to see; Esca has been taken by surprise and no doubt his dismay is all across his face. “You have had it, Esca,” Muirġa says, reaching a hand to grip Esca's arm, where he is marked, for a few heartbeats. “There will be little difference from our night. It is a help for the strand. For me; perhaps you will not need it.” A grimace twists his lips, there and gone so quickly Esca might have imagined it. He knows he did not.

A small part of his mind wishes now he had found a word, a single word, a few moments ago; then at least he would have had Muirġa spill within him once more, felt Muirġa's seed drain from him again, coating his thighs. For he spoke truth to Muirġa: he has felt its lack, has already grown used to Muirġa in his arms, nestled together under his coat, within him. Instead, tonight Muirġa will spend his seed between a woman's legs, as will Esca, and he cannot bear to think of that at this moment.

“She is a good woman,” Muirġa says abruptly, settling back as if to put some distance between them. “I would that I had a hundredth of the desire for her I feel for you. It would please… some if I took a wife. Have you had women?” He does not wait for an answer. “I spent many days being told of my – of these expectations. But despite knowing this, I never saw a woman who sharpened my spear, only those of my sea brothers who… And you. One look, my archer. The first time I saw you, knocking the Roman from his horse and pummeling him into the ground... I desired you then as I do now. And then my sister hatched a plan of her own...” He stares at the ground for a long moment, then looks up to meet Esca's gaze. “So it was I found that you also...” His smile is as intimate as his voice, pitched low.

Yet to all outside appearances, the two of them are sitting, some distance apart, talking of casual things. Esca is again two heartbeats from shaming the _teglach_ himself; he casts around again for a way to distract them both. “Úlla and I have had some speech,” he says. “I did not know her son would be–”

“ _Your_ son,” Muirġa says. “The blood of Cunoval.”

“But… but you have a son,” Esca says. “What of him?”

Muirġa frowns; his puzzlement seems genuine. “Yes, he is my son, and Coblait’s,” he says. “But Úlla and Uaimh are daughters of Bearrach, cousin to my own mother, Muirne. Bearrach and my sisters trace their bloodline to a daughter of the seals and Ciann.”

“Gelgeis?” Esca says, distracted for a moment.

“I also think this,” Muirġa says, a grin slanting one corner of his mouth. “Little Ciannait was brave and clever. But we are not Brigantes, my archer. Women are the blood and the moon and the sea, whence comes life. Our grandmother is of this bloodline, as was my mother.”

“So… it matters not who the father of Úlla's child is,” Esca says.

"On the face of it?” Muirġa says slowly. “No. At the heart of it? Yes. Uaimh refuses the strand. It is her right, whatever her reasons. Úlla would have gone last summer but neither Bearrach nor Nechtann approved. You were a gift from the gods in many respects, _a ṡearc_. In this particular, he could not say no to her; thus he could not say no to me. He does not think it, but I do. I have told you, our _teglach_ needs new ideas. New blood.”

“I do not argue with you,” Esca says, leaning in and putting a hand on Muirġa's wrist. “I do not say you are wrong. But I think this: they will resist because it is me. And perhaps because I am Brigantes.”

“It is both,” Muirġa says, very quietly; and very gently he removes Esca’s hand from his wrist and shifts back. Esca looks up, words of apology rising to his lips, but the look on Muirġa’s face – one that he’s certain reflects the longing he feels himself – silences him. Muirġa takes a breath. “You are a focus for anger, and I am sorry for that. But you are also a focus for change, a change that comes from outside and so is less threatening, because it is not proposed by one of us.”

“I am allied with you – with the _teglach_ ,” Esca says. “I am not neutral in any of this.”

“But you are allied only with the _teglach_ , and not with any of the factions, or indeed any of the _finte_ in the highlands or the lowlands. I do not need you to be neutral. I do not want you to be neutral. I want you at my side. It is as I have told you before: I need you to be Esca, a Brigantes warrior of the blue war shields, the son of Cunoval of the five hundred spears, a king by birth just as I am, and allied with our _fine_. I need a man who has fought the Romans firsthand, a man who is not Nechtann and Bridei. I need a man who is fearless, who is brave, a man of honor who will be respected by those outside the _fine_ as well as within it.”

Esca listens in growing horror, his tongue tied in too many places to protest with any coherence. “I have no new ideas. I am no king among the Brigantes,” he says, alarmed; with every word, the situation becomes more mired in disgrace and treachery, and he can feel only disgust with himself. Had he stumbled into a bog, he would welcome it compared to this: his death would be cleaner, quicker, and would hurt none but himself. Although he had no wish to live, in the ring that day, for the first time he actively hates Marcus for convincing the crowd to spare his life.

It is possible we could learn to fight them, to drive them from here. But this will never happen if we continue on our current path, where the feann are separate, used only for hunting and raiding. I have seen it.”

“To ally with the Boresti might be difficult, but possible,” Esca says, his mind racing. “To trade… what? Protection? Warriors? Training? To keep their fields, their land safe from the Romans? To have this a pact that stretches among all the northern _finte_? You… if you were to propose this, you and such elders as would agree, they might take this as good faith, that you have helped to drive them from Boresti lands already.”

He thinks for a long moment, remembering long, quiet talks between his father, his mother, and Tigern, and Enabarr, around the hearth. “To send someone on your behalf,” he says. “To apologize, to bring gifts; but, more importantly, to bring a new plan. To start with the Boresti would seem to be the worst approach but it might be the best, since an alliance with them would send a signal to all the others that there is a new way, and that the fiercest warriors of all are those who are committed to seeing this pact succeed.”

“You see?” Muirġa’s voice is jubilant; his eyes are blazing. Too late Esca realizes what he has said, what he has done; even as his stomach sinks, he knows he cannot pretend to himself any longer that his interests are not Muirġa’s. “You are Esca mac Cunoval, the only surviving son of the lord of five hundred spears. It shows in every word from your lips. Your very existence brings new life to us here in the north: the Romans did not succeed in killing you, nor in keeping you prisoner. And now, now you are one with our people, yet from a _fine_ remote enough none here will fear any but your alliance with the People of the Seals, and that is only to be expected. You will – as you already have – shake us out of our thinking, give us new thoughts that will help us defeat the Romans. This alliance you propose with the People from the Morning...[[48]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49484576#note48) this is something to consider, something for the _feann_ to consider if the _fine_ will not, and something you could be entrusted by those outside the _teglach_ to pursue.”

Esca shakes his head; he is dying from the inside out, and wholly inadequate to all that lies before him now.

“Esca,” Muirġa says, stretching a hand out, then evidently thinking better of touching. “My archer, hear this. That you agreed to join our _feann_ pleases the gods and the _fine_. Our _teglach_? Despite what… others may think, this is more important than all the rest. _This_ is the honour you do us. I have seen it. And though we are shield-brothers, still I would say this even if we were not, even if you had chosen another to initiate you.”

"Another?” Esca cannot tell if Muirġa is speaking in earnest. “Who else–”

“I had hoped there would not be a need,” Muirġa says, his eyes glinting and, impossibly, there is mischief in his smile. “As far as Iuuar and Allidd could tell, were you not inclined to have me, or Áed or Calcach, it might have fallen to Bearrach.”

But Esca can't summon an answering smile: the import of Muirġa's words hits him like a stone. “This – this is the life-debt? This is why? It was of such importance–”

“You,” Muirġa says, barely above a whisper. “ _You_ were of such importance. Have I not made it clear? I have said you were a gift from the gods, to come to us now, in this time, in this form, son of Cunoval; did you think these mere love-words, to entice a maiden to the strand?”

Esca looks Muirġa full in the face. He has never been so close to betraying Marcus, and his father, the blood of Cunoval Muirġa esteems so highly, as at this moment.

“I am hollow inside,” he whispers, and he feels tears start to his eyes. He is more naked now than he has ever been, stripped bare and bleeding from wounds too numerous to count. “My heart has found a home with yours… _a ṡearc_.”

“ _An-áthas mo chroí,”_ Muirġa whispers in return. “It is safe in my keeping.” There are no tears in Muirġa’s eyes. Esca can no longer hold that part of himself back, and Muirġa must sense it, for he looks fiercely triumphant.

Esca swallows convulsively; there is bile rising in his throat. “I – I cannot–”

“This was unfair,” Muirġa says, his voice pitched low. “Yet, again, I cannot say I regret it. I will not say it. But know this: I cannot say what is in my heart, or this night will not go as it must.”

“I know it,” Esca says through clenched teeth, struggling to keep his stomach, and the rest of him, under control. “But I must speak–”

“I balance on the edge of a knife,” Muirġa says. “Never did I think–”

“My prince!” Iuuar’s voice rings out from behind them; startled, Esca leaps to his feet. Muirġa glances up at him and snorts, his smile a mixture of approbation and mischief: he had seen Iuuar’s approach, that much is clear.

Esca musters his own grin, the rush through his veins overtaking his sadness and drowning it out for the moment, and so he reaches a hand down to Muirġa. He revels in the warmth and strength of Muirġa’s fingers entwined with his own; and he feels the tears threaten again. But Iuuar’s interruption was enough, enough for Esca to remember his promise, his honour, to take a step back from that desperate brink.

“After tonight–”

“After tonight, you will have all the time in the world, my brothers,” Iuuar says, almost as quietly as Muirġa; and he takes their hands, still clasped, and gently pulls them apart, keeping hold of both in his own. “Not much longer.”

“I know,” Muirġa says, almost under his breath.

Esca can’t speak; he doesn’t try. He pulls his hand from Iuuar’s grasp, as gently as Iuuar had taken his hand, so Iuuar doesn’t think Esca is angry, and he blots the wetness from his eyes on the back of his hand.

It is goodbye; and he will never again have this. Nor will Muirġa. He will never again see Muirġa looking at him with this longing, this affection, this approval; he will never again see the intimate smile curve Muirġa’s lips, the one he already knows is his alone. If all goes as it should, as it must, the next time he sees Muirġa his eyes will be filled with anger, his face twisted in fury. The words well up, unbidden, from his heart. “I’m sorry–”

“Come,” Iuuar says quietly. “It is not so bad as all that, son of Cunoval.”

“Here,” Muirġa says, and his voice cracks. He takes the strand of bones from around his neck and puts it over Esca’s head, settling it with a deft touch. “I will be – it will be–”

Esca puts his own hand up to cover Muirġa’s, where it rests against his chest. He can’t speak; he swallows and rubs his thumb across the dried clay on the back of Muirġa’s hand. Muirġa’s talisman will make all of it harder on the morrow; but – once again – he has no recourse. His path has narrowed: there is only one way forward now.

There has been only one way forward all along.

His hand closes convulsively on Muirġa’s.

“I will forget you are men,” Iuuar says. “I must call you boys. Esca – you are no longer alone. You are one with our _teglach_ now. And you must remember the honour the son of Cunoval brings our _fine_ , _a flatha_. Yes?”

Esca sees Muirġa’s throat working; but then he says, gruff and low, “Yes.”

“The women depart soon,” Iuuar says. “Your absence will be remarked.”

“The women…” Muirġa turns back to Esca, his eyes suddenly alight. “The gift for Úlla.”

There is a dull roar in Esca’s ears, but finally Muirġa’s words, and their meaning, penetrate Esca’s grief. “I forgot.”

“Yes,” Muirġa says. “It will delight her.”

“I will.” But still he hesitates. “Is it all right?”

“Iuuar,” Muirġa says, and his face is serious now. “A moment.”

Iuuar rolls his eyes, and Esca feels a warmth blossom all through him. Iuuar’s reserve is so well known among the _fennidi_ that any deviation from it is discussed for days. He imagines their reaction to seeing Iuuar’s expression right now. “ _M’aonṁac_ , you are a lesson for patience.” He puts one hand on Muirġa’s shoulder and the other on Esca’s. “Come soon.” His grip tightens for an instant on Esca’s shoulder and Esca looks at him, startled. “Your way is clear.” [[49]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49484576#note49)

Esca swallows, and swallows again, but his throat is dry, and tears sting his eyes. Iuuar looks at him a moment longer, his own eyes softening.

“ _A_ _deartháir máthar,_ ” Muirġa says quietly. “If you will.” [[50]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605595/chapters/49484576#note50)

Iuuar turns on his heel and Esca struggles for breath, for words. Muirġa is keenly observant and, more than that, perceptive: he makes intuitive leaps that Esca has rarely seen in anyone. He struggles for composure; he struggles to hide his sorrow from Muirġa’s intent gaze. But Muirġa’s next question takes him by surprise.

“Have you had women?”

Oh, how to answer, now? They have no time; and even if they had time, Esca can’t speak of it, can’t remember, not now.

Not ever, now.

He settles for straightforward: they have no time, and Muirġa seeks only information, not knowledge, thinking he has discerned Esca’s reluctance. “I have,” he says. “But I do not wish to speak of that now. Someday–” he swallows hard, “one day, ask me again, and I will tell you all of it.”

“I would know now, _a ṡearc,”_ Muirġa says.

“I cannot speak of it now,” Esca says, his jaw tight, his words clipped. “I ask you, my brother. I cannot face – I cannot face Úlla if I must – if I must remember. I ask you. Please.”

"Someday, then, my archer,” Muirġa says, lifting a hand to Esca's face. “I will listen then.” He hesitates a moment while Esca struggles to choke down his grief, and then says, hesitant, “Did you think to get married?”

Esca has no choice: Muirġa will not let it go, else. “Slaves cannot marry.” He lets Muirġa have a moment and then says, as gently as he can, “But I did not wish to. Please, _a chroí_. Let us leave it for the nonce.” He doesn’t essay a smile; Muirġa would see through it. But he keeps his eyes level, his mouth firm.

It seems to be enough; Muirġa scrutinizes him closely for a long moment, then nods. “Go, then, my archer.” He reaches out and Esca braces himself, but it is only to finger one of the bones on the talisman that rests around his neck. “I will be with you,” he says in a low voice. Then, more normally: “I wish I could see Úlla’s delight in your gift. But she will no doubt shower all of us with her joy on the morrow.”

Esca does not let his gaze falter; he even manages a quick grin. Muirġa will mistake his flush for embarrassment, not shame, and that is as it should be.

“Courage,” Muirġa whispers, and it’s clear he’s talking to himself as much to Esca. Then he turns on his heel and strides away. Esca watches him go; before he realizes it, a tear has fallen, then another. He wipes his face on his sleeve. Iuuar is some distance away, his back turned. Esca takes a few deep breaths and goes to join him.

 

* * *

### Footnotes

48 _Daoine ón bhore_ \- the people from the morning. “Bore” means morning or dawn; it is conceivable the Romans who named the Boresti drew upon this cognate to describe the people who inhabited the peninsula northeast of the Firth of Moray. They were able to cultivate barley, that much we know. However, Muirġa burning their crops is entirely my own invention.  
Click here to return to the story.

49 My son (implies a close relationship) - _m’aon_ is an honorific of sorts.  
Click here to return to the story.

50 _A deartháir máthar_ : my mother’s brother (uncle who is my mother’s brother). This is an honorific for Iuuar as an uncle and an elder from the maternal line.  
Click here to return to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I can say that I've lived here in honor and danger_  
>  _But I'm just an animal and cannot explain a life_  
>  _Down this chain of days I wished to stay among my people_  
>  _Relation now means nothing, having chosen so defined_  
>   
>  _And if death should smell my breathing_  
>  _As it pass beneath my window_  
>  _Let it lead me trembling, trembling_  
>  _I own every bell that tolls me_  
>   
>     ~ _At Last_ , Neko Case

**Author's Note:**

> [Story notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936999/chapters/42356957), including assumptions and my reasoning, are available in the last section of the series along with a partial bibliography.


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